


Of Feeling and Consequence

by splashfree



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Bisexual Disaster Kurusu Akira, Conflict Resolution, Destiny, Five Years Later, Flashbacks, Forgiveness, Fun Day Out, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Interpersonal Conflict, M/M, Mentions of Attempted Suicide, Overcoming Trauma, Past Kurusu Akira/Sakura Futaba, Peripheral Sakamoto Ryuji/Takamaki Ann, Remembrance, Reunions, Slow Burn, false imprisonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:47:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21603211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splashfree/pseuds/splashfree
Summary: Five years after the Phantom Thieves save the world, Akira Kurusu runs into the one person he never thought he'd see again.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 33
Kudos: 331





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this over a year ago as a sort of fix-it fic for Akechi's subplot, but I think ultimately it just turned into the story I wanted to tell.
> 
> I feel like writing a voiceless protagonist inherently necessitates a fair amount of fabrication, so while I can't vouch for the accuracy of Akira's characterization, I hope he is at least enjoyable to read. This fic as a whole is largely the product of my personal experience of Persona 5, which I realize is very subjective. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I hope someone somewhere enjoys this fic, as I realize it won't be for everyone (and I'm okay with that).
> 
> I've tried to tag as accurately as I can, but read with caution -- if you come across something that doesn't sit well with you, please practice good self-care and use your browser's back button. This fic has been completely written, so, barring incident, the last two chapters should be up as soon as I get the chance to format them.
> 
> I'd like to extend a particularly grateful shout-out to my dear friend [windflicker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/windflicker/pseuds/windflicker), who endured hours of my agonizing, encouraged me every time I lied to myself that it was almost done, and without whose help I would very likely not be publishing this at all. I hope...you find it at least somewhat worth the wait. 
> 
> I think...that's it. I can't believe I'm finally posting this thing. I hope you find something you enjoy.

In the end, it simply comes down to dumb luck.

Akira's too busy messing with his phone to notice the signal has changed from red to green. An impatient businessman jostles him two paces to the right and straight into the flow of oncoming pedestrians. Nearly colliding with a grocery-laden housewife sends him skirting around another businessman, who outright snaps his tongue in chastisement. A tense round of bobbing, weaving, and muttered apologies from Akira Kurusu, but if he's honest, that just makes it another Thursday.

Ultimately, he forgoes the zebra stripes in favor of jaywalking magnificently across the empty underpass and towards a route he barely ever takes, but knows will get him to the station with one-hundred-percent-less dirty looks.

"That's why they _say_ ," intones a reedy, superior voice from his shoulder-bag, "texting while walking is dangerous and will get you into trouble."

" _Walking_ gets me into trouble," Akira corrects without moving his lips. " _Breathing_ gets me into trouble, I _am_ trouble, I am _king_ of--" He exaggerates a cough as a lady passes him, her hand subtly tightening on her purse.

"Nice," Morgana says.

Luckily, there are fewer people on this street: a few, straggling businessmen; a couple of tourists chattering away in Cantonese; a young mother pushing a stroller; and a convenience-store worker handing out flyers. A free bottle of tea, he's explaining on repeat, tomorrow, if you bring this flyer. Predictably ignored, but plying his coupons with the sort of cheerful indefatigability possessed by decent folk trying to make an honest living, and this is perfectly admirable to Akira. So as he approaches the fellow, he makes the snap-decision to extend a helping hand.

"--tomorrow, September twenty-eighth. The coupon is valid all weekend at the new 8-Ten opening one block over -- Ah, thank you, sir--"

Akira's got his hand on the flyer and the guy's halfway through his thanks when they make eye-contact, and Akira finds himself staring into the face of a dead man.

Time freezes.

If the Metaverse hadn't properly disappeared, Akira would have suspected the stop to be literal. It isn't. Cars are moving on the elevated highway, and the shuffle of pedestrians continues. Akira clutches one half of the crinkly flyer.

For the span of several heartbeats, neither of them move. Then the young man's eyes fold, lips drawing back in the widest, most artificial grin Akira has ever seen.

"Wow," chirps Goro Akechi, "I guess some things really are destiny!"

"Akechi."

It's all he can say.

"I'm sorry." Akechi laughs, wheeling his gaze away as though from something indecent. "You must be mistaken."

" _Akechi_ ," Akira says again, grip tightening on the flyer connecting them. He stares, and there can be no mistake: his hair might be shorter, cheekbones sharper, eyes duller, but this is none other than Goro Akechi, missing since the Phantom Thieves thwarted Masayoshi Shido's crooked ambitions five years ago. "Goro Akechi."

"I'm not--" The flyer tugs, wilts when Akira won't let go. Akechi's customer-service smile flags. "You're wrong."

He's not, but Akira glances at Akechi's name-tag anyway.

"Suzuki," he reads. "Shift leader? That's-- Akechi, whe--"

The flyer jerks violently in Akira's hand. A commuter passes them with an uneasy glance.

Akechi offers another smile. "Please let go, sir."

"I want a coupon," Akira says blankly. He's speaking to Goro Akechi, Goro Akechi is _here, in front of him,_ Goro Akechi is-- "A new 8-Ten? One block over?" He can just make out a small map contorted under Akechi's thumb. "I love 8-Tens."

"The map is a misprint," Akechi explains seamlessly. "These flyers need to be destroyed. Immediately. If you please."

Akira tugs back. "You were just handing them out."

"What can I say," Akechi beams, death-grip unrelenting, "I'm bad at my job."

"Akira? What's the hold-up--"

Two paws materialize on Akira's shoulder, and Akechi's pretense drops entirely with his alarm. The flyer crumples into Akira's victorious fist.

"...Akechi!?"

" _You_." Akechi's voice is low and raw, and he grips the remaining stack of flyers with white fingers. Akira can see it play out: a gust of coupons flung into his face as Suzuki-Akechi flees into the night.

"No way...!" Morgana gasps. "You actually _did_ survive!"

Akechi has slid a heel backwards, jaw ticking, and Akira can tell he's T minus ten seconds until Coupon Garula.

"Morgana, back in the bag," he says with authority. "You're scaring Suzuki-san."

"Suzuki-san? What are you talking about, Akira, that's--"

Akira doesn't have time to explain, so he places a gentle hand on Morgana's head and shoves him inelegantly back into the bag. He zips over Morgana's indignant protests, and only a hissed promise of supermarket sashimi ( _"Yes, one of the big packets!"_ ) quiets the cat to a heated sulk.

"Sorry about that," Akira says, gingerly re-shouldering his bag. "Thanks...for the coupon?"

He lifts it lamely, with an even lamer smile. Akechi glares at him.

"Look," Akira continues quickly, "Ake--Suzuki-san. Uh. I...I'm not trying to cause you trouble, I promise. I'm not. I just--" Akira rubs the back of his neck. "It's just I--"

Just when he thought he had enough courage to handle pretty much anything, words clog in Akira's throat.

The garish 8-Ten uniform clashes with Akechi's fair coloring, making him look as smudgy as the darkness pooled beneath the illegally-parked cars serrating this side of the street. The situation feels oddly reminiscent of Mementos, of facing down a cornered Shadow and negotiating terms. The moment that won a new ally or damned another enemy.

He remembers having Akechi at his side then, gun steady as backup. Then another time, that very same gun trained on him.

Akechi's expression sinks into the slowly falling dust, and he opens his mouth. Akira waits, but just as he did a moment ago, so balks Akechi.

There isn't much to say, Akira reasons fairly, because there's too much to say. The logic is circular and unsatisfying.

Another businessman brushes past.

"Coupons for a free," Akechi blurts like a wind-up toy whirring to life again, "bottle of tea, good through this weekend at the new 8-Ten opening just one block down, present this flyer for a free bottle of tea-- Good evening, ma'am, could I interest you in a -- thank you for your time, Coupons for a free bottle of--"

The chipper mantra resumes. Akira stands uselessly, just another obstacle on the sidewalk to be avoided.

"Hey uh," he tries as another middle-aged lady breezes by without so much as a glance, "can I have another one?"

Akira is expecting either resistance or dismissal, but Akechi seamlessly hands it over.

"Good through this weekend, "Akechi repeats in what he probably intends to be bulletproof pleasantness, but instead comes out withered. He won't meet Akira's eyes. "At the new 8-Ten opening one block down."

"Thanks," Akira says, carefully accepting the less-tortured flyer. "I'll be there."

"Great, sir."

"I'll come tomorrow," Akira tells him.

"Have a great day."

"At around this time."

"Okay, sir."

"I'm looking forward to it."

Akechi's breath catches. He swallows. Tilts his head as though sliding Akira's voice out of his ear, and turns his back on him.

"Coupons for a free bottle of tea, good through this weekend at the new 8-Ten opening one block down, tomorrow, September twenty-eighth--"

Akechi's renewed vigor gives him better luck; a businessman snatches a flyer and Akira turns on his heel, hunches his shoulders against the late September dusk, and continues to the station, heart rattling in his throat.

Because he was right. He was _right_.

Goro Akechi _is_ alive.

Classes run late, so by the time Akira makes it through the Friday-rush mayhem to the new 8-Ten, its lights are a soft beacon in the indigo dark. Business is thriving for the new establishment: customers line the aisles waiting to check out, all three registers ringing at full force. _A lot of free tea,_ Akira thinks absently.

For all his worries to the contrary, Akechi -- Suzuki-san -- is there, working the middle register with the deft moves of a veteran. He bows; breaks bills to coins with the speed of a casino dealer; separates hot and cold merchandise into separate bags; returns everyone's receipts; and still finds time at the end of every transaction for a perfectly curated smile. Akira knows his own bias, but even the most objective of critics must admit: Goro Akechi is a wonder to watch.

Which is exactly what Akira is doing, he realizes, and he blinks himself out of his stupor.

Akira ducks into line and grips the crumpled coupon in his pocket to calm his nerves. After all his time sneaking through Shadow-ridden Palaces, he thought he'd be cooler about the threat of detection, but the innocuous fluorescent lighting of this convenience store somehow feels a thousand times more exposing than a spotlight brandished by an otherworldly security guard. He wishes, too late, he had brought a mask.

Customers flow inexorably forward, and before he's ready, Akira is being called to the register -- by a young lady with a smooth, black ponytail.

"After you," Akira says to the person behind him with a theatrical sweep of his arm.

As luck would have it, it's a little old lady.

"Oh my," she beams. "What a generous young man! What good manners, your mother must have taught y--"

A familiar voice lifts: "I can take the next customer--"

Akira spins on his heel, abandoning the old lady mid-sentence, and plants himself in front of the middle register.

He gets there just in time to watch the smile drop from Akechi's mouth. "Oh," says Akechi.

"Hi," says Akira. "I'd like." He swallows. "Tea."

 _Nice_ , he thinks. _Real smooth, Joker._

Akechi's smile flickers back like a bad lightbulb. "I'm sorry, sir," Akechi says, "but we don't allow animals inside the store." He gestures elegantly to Akira's bag. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"I didn't bring him," Akira admits. Akechi's sweet smile congeals.

"Can I," Akira pulls the crumpled coupon from his pocket, realizing too late (and with no little amount of horror) that it's slightly damp. He presses it to the counter. "I'd like this bottle of tea, please."

Akechi stares at him, perfectly still for a moment as he deliberates something. Then he dips his hand into a cooler behind the counter and procures an 8-Ten-brand bottle of roasted green tea.

"Would you like a bag?" Akechi offers.

"I'd like to talk."

Akechi's jaw ticks. "Allow me to apply a seal of purchase, then."

He marks the bottle with a strip of tape and hands it to him.

"Thank you for your patronage," Akechi platitudes. "Have a good evening."

Akira clasps the bottle. "Can I have my receipt?"

Akechi's eyes darken. He stabs a button on the register and a paper prints.

"Your receipt, sir," says Akechi. Akira wasn't aware anyone could inflict such damage with respectful language. "Have a good evening. I can help the next customer over here!"

And that's that. Akira shuffles away, cold tea in one hand, receipt of non-purchase in his other. An old lady glares at him on her way out.

Well. If at first you don't succeed, as they say.

Akira pockets the receipt, uncaps his tea, and wanders around the little 8-Ten, taking in Akechi's workplace. It's well-stocked for its opening, boasting all the latest snacks and soft drinks. The magazine rack is pristine, and Akira checks the new issue of _Non-Non_ out of habit, but the covergirl is no one he recognizes.

Once he's made a circuit of the store and examined all the ice cream (because Morgana will ask) he forgoes the last seat at the eat-in area, and leaves.

Walks a single loop around the modest parking lot, then walks straight back in.

The line is still long. He queues. Trades places with a grateful mother of two, and then with an indifferent businessman. This time Akechi sees him coming.

"Can I help you?" His exasperation is tangible.

"I'd like," Akira reaches into his pocket and withdraws the second (mercifully drier) coupon, "a bottle of tea, please."

"I'm sorry," says Akechi again, but this time he doesn't bother faking to sound so, "only one per customer per day."

"Per day," Akira repeats. "Does that mean I can get another one if I bring this tomorrow? Or Sunday?"

Akechi exhales through his nose, and Akira can tell his meaning conveyed. "I suppose so," he says.

"So there's no way you can give it to me now?" Akira presses. "If it helps, it's not for me. It's for my cat."

Akechi stares at him again, lips twisting in some surge of emotion that is immediately killed. He dips back into the cooler.

"Anything else today, sir?" Akechi asks stonily, scanning the bottle and Akira's second coupon.

"Yeah," Akira says, and his chest hurts. "I'd really like that talk."

Akechi shoots him a look, feeding the receipt from the printer and handing it over.

"Your receipt," he says, stooping to retrieve a plastic bag. "Please be aware that we are no longer distributing coupons. If you would like more tea, you will have to purchase it." He sinks the bottle into the bag, expertly twists the ears, and presents it to Akira. His eyes are tired. "At nine," he says.

"I'll be here," Akira promises, taking the bag.

"Do as you will. Next customer, please!"

He'll have to wait two hours, but then again, he would have waited all night.

At eight-fifty-three, the crowds have dispersed, and Akechi is no longer at the register.

"Hi," says Akira to the girl from before with the smooth ponytail. He carefully transfers each bottle to the counter, not-so-subtly sweeping the store for a glimpse of ash-colored hair. He finally hands over the empty shopping basket.

The cashier checks him out in every sense of the word, one furtive glance for each bottle scanned. She's cute, Akira realizes, with bangs kind of like Futaba's, so he gives her a smile. She purples.

"You can't possibly like it _that_ much."

Suzuki-san stands in the open door to the backroom wearing a tablet around his neck and a look of unconcealed disdain for the half-dozen bottles. Akira grins.

"It's actually," Relief is lighting his veins, making his arms goofy, "really good. Gotta stock up."

Akechi snorts humorlessly. "I wasn't aware cats enjoy green tea," he says to the tablet screen, jabbing it with a stylus.

"Roasted green tea," Akira clarifies. "He's very particular about that." The cashier (Otsuka, says her name-tag) is staring at him. "I have a vary particular cat," he explains.

That snort again. Akechi jerks his chin, peeling into the backroom. "Around back," he says. "Otsuka-san, the floor is yours."

It's six-hundred forty-eight yen, and Akira pays with his phone. Akechi has disappeared behind the swinging steel doors, and Akira didn't get the impression he was meant to follow. But "around back" was clear enough, so he exits the bright store and cuts through the spotted dark.

The backdoor is illuminated by a single light, brilliant in its newness. Clean trashcans hug the brick wall, and the chain-link fence cutting the property line is a fresh silver, devoid of industrious weeds.

He's alone. He settles his weight on a bin labeled "Plastic Bottles" and waits, bag of tea dangling between his outstretched legs.

He doesn't have to wait very long.

The door to the backroom cracks open, and a black heel juts through, purchasing enough leverage for a leg, and then half of Akechi as he schleps four huge bags of garbage out into the night. He's a little graceless, stumbling in the threshold as he squeezes himself through, but before Akira can form an offer of assistance, the door snaps shut and Akechi is sorting the bags into their appropriate bins. Akira watches him silently, and Akechi ignores him.

Task completed, Akechi dusts his hands. Sighs once through his nose. "So?" he says wearily. "Is this when the police jump out of the bushes, or do you need me to confess to something first?"

Akira blinks, and his chuckle takes a moment to emerge. "No," he says. "No police. Just me."

"I see." But Akechi is very purposefully looking at everything _but_ Akira. "Then what are you doing here?"

Akira's chuckle graduates to a breathy laugh. He fishes into his bag. "Here," he calls, and Akechi thankfully looks up before the tea hits him. He catches it, dumbfounded.

"You--"

"But have you actually ever _tried_ it?" Akira preempts, resting the bag on the recycling bin beside him so he can open his third bottle of the night. "It's good to know what your customers like." He grins. "Suzuki-san."

Akechi's eyes are tired again. He perches the bottle delicately on the closed trashcan.

"I've tried it," he says. "It's tasteless."

"Exactly," Akira agrees. "A good kind of tasteless."

They fall silent. The night is quiet. Akechi is still staring at the trashcan.

"You're not going to ask," he says finally.

"Would you answer if I did?"

"If I tell you," Akechi sticks his hands into his uniform pockets, "will you promise never to come here again?"

"Akechi." The name is out before Akira can correct himself. He chews his lip, ducks his head. "I don't...know if I can promise that."

Akechi's sigh is clearly agitated. "I had no intention of ever seeing you again," he says.

"And I didn't think I would ever see you again," Akira says, and now that the words are happening, they seem easier to use. "Akechi, I looked for you. We all did. For years."

Against hope. Against Morgana's better judgment. Against Ryuji's solid shoulder-clap, against Ann's pitying gaze, against Yusuke's simple hypothesis as to what happened that night, against Makoto's inability to contradict him. Against Haru's fake cheerfulness, against Futaba's entire network turning up nothing, the vast expanses of the Internet itself turning traitor to Akira's conviction that Goro Akechi was still alive.

And now five years later, at an 8-Ten in lesser-Tokyo, Akira literally runs into his very first and final lead.

Who is currently glaring at a bottle of tea balanced on a trashcan, hands balled into fists.

Akira laughs, breathy and forced. "Look," he says, raking a hand through his hair, "this...this is a win-scenario for me. And even if you don't see it that way, that's fine, I get it but," he laughs again, "what's there to stop us? From working it out, I mean."

Akechi is still.

"I mean," Akira continues, "we saved the mortal universe, shut down the Metaverse, and helped society reconstruct itself in some pretty solid ways. What's a bit of interpersonal conflict, am I right?"

"You did," Akechi murmurs. "Not me."

"The Phantom Thieves did," Akira clarifies, knowing where this is going, "of which you were a part."

"As a spy."

"Well, yeah," Akira concedes, "but the results were pretty real, so I'd say it counts."

Akechi is silent. Akira watches him.

"Is that why?" Akira asks. "Because you feel guilty?"

He thinks about filling the space, assuring Akechi that he has no reason to feel that way, that he's more than forgiven for any misdeeds of the past, that all Akira wants to do is move beyond this, through this, whatever it takes to not have the empty space of a friend hollowed out in his heart. But that would just be argument for its own sake, simply noise to waylay the terrifying silence.

"I didn't intend to see you again," says Akechi, "because I hate you, Akira."

His voice is calm, quiet, and perfectly sane. The words hurt. They cut cleanly across Akira's chest like the physical kiss of a knife, like an attack from which Crow might once have shielded him. Akira takes the blow, doesn't look away because Akechi's eyes are tired again and suddenly very, very sad.

"Yeah," Akira says, "I got that." He sloshes his tea with a rueful smile. "Getting shot in the face was a big hint."

Akechi visibly flinches.

"I'm sorry," Akira says quickly, but it's not for his jab just now. "You must have been going through hell, and we weren't there for you." He scuffs a heel against the pavement. " _I_ wasn't there for you."

He remembers thinking it, meeting Akechi at the train station by chance one unusually cold morning. Akechi's exaggerated, yet delighted, surprise that we should meet here of all places! although they occasionally do. _The probability is staggering, when you think about it,_ Akechi explained, eyes bright, white steam puffing from his mouth. He adjusted his muffler. _Considering the population of Tokyo, that two people should meet under anything but prearranged circumstances is statistically thrilling, wouldn't you say?_

Akira remembers smiling, remembers feeling charmed by Akechi's brilliant curiosity.

 _This guy's going to betray me,_ he remembers thinking.

It was surreal to even consider then.

"That's not it." Akechi's voice is tiny, broken.

"Then what is?" Akira lifts his head. _Talk to me, Akechi,_ he wills.

Akechi opens his mouth, shuts it, swallows. Swallows again.

"I can't do this," he mutters, and moves for the door.

"A bit at a time," Akira blurts. He's halfway off the recycling bin as though he intends to physically waylay him. "Not all at once. We can take it slow. Talk about...dumb stuff. About anything."

At least he's looking at him now, Akira reasons. It helps.

"Just don't disappear again." He swallows. "Please."

Akechi's face is a study of shadow under the single porch light. His eyes drift, fall lightly into some thought Akira can't see. "We just opened," he says finally. "I can't very well up and leave."

Hope balloons in a swell that threatens to burst Akira's throat. "Then I'll come back," he says. "From time to time."

Akechi lifts his shoulder in a half-shrug, jerking open the backroom door.

"Don't forget your tea," Akira blurts, nodding to the untouched bottle on the trashcan.

"I'm sure someone else will enjoy it more than I would," he mutters.

"I'll see you later, Akechi." Akira's heart thuds under his collar, but his voice is steady. A promise.

Akechi pauses in the threshold. "Goodbye," he says.

The door shuts behind him with a snap.

"It's probably because you tried making amends with this garbage," Morgana says later, scraping his tongue of the flavor of 8-Ten's roasted green tea. "I can't believe you drank three bottles of this."

"I like it," Akira mutters, falling back into his bed, arms outstretched. He's not sure what he expected, rehashing the tale to Morgana, but he doesn't exactly feel better.

"Relax," Morgana says. He picks at an itchy toe-bean. "Akechi's got worries of his own. More than what he has to make up for from back then, I mean. Just let it happen. You want me to come with you next time?"

"No," says Akira quickly. While he's sure Morgana has only the best of intentions, Akira can't envision a reunion between them that doesn't involve literal scratching.

"Then I'll leave it to you. You've got this, Joker." Morgana sniffs the saucer of tea once more, shakes his head. "Maybe try something sweeter next time. Just my winning advice."

Next time happens on Monday. Akechi is restocking potato chips.

"You know," Akira says to him, casually flipping through a copy of _Non-Non,_ "Ann did a shoot with a French fashion magazine? They even flew her out to Paris. It was crazy."

"Please don't read the magazines before purchase, sir," Akechi monotones, stuffing a line of barbecue chips into the bottom shelf.

"We thought Yusuke was going to die of jealousy," Akira strategically ignores him. "Apparently he even tried contacting the magazine to offer his 'artistic services,' but they, uh, declined."

Akechi says nothing.

"Then Haru offered to fly him out anyway," Akira continues, scanning the splash-page for Cute Fall Looks To Charm Your Man (baggy knit-sweaters are apparently irresistible this year. Akira can't say he disagrees), "because he seemed so crushed, but he refused. 'Artistic pride' or something. So then Haru got the idea to fly all the girls out instead, which Ryuji bitched about for the whole week they were gone, but they seemed to have a great time. The pictures were great, anyway. Makoto learned enough French to get them into some ritzy tea room that was historically only ever used by nobility or something? Ryuji was _dying_. We ate so much pity ramen. But they brought us back cool souvenirs, so I guess all's well that ends well."

Akira pauses. Akechi checks the shelf price-tags, pulls a few that no longer reflect the current product.

For one horrible moment, Akira feels the full two meters between them. The blockade against which he's been blithely hammering, but which obviously has no intention of yielding.

 _And what does this have to do with me?_ an imaginary Akechi turns to him as though through a Metaverse haze. _You really think prattling on about your sappy friends is going to make any of this better?_

Akira has his mouth open to change tacks when Akechi says, "That's...nice."

He's straightened up and is appraising his work. He glances once at Akira.

"I've always thought," he forces, "I might like to travel."

Akira squeezes the pages of _Non-Non_ and tries not to smile like an idiot. "Yeah," he says, his voice coming out a little squeaky, but it's working, _it's working_. "I mean, we went to Hawaii for our school trip, but Europe seems like it would be incredible. Not that I could speak any of the language. I'd have to take Ann or Makoto along."

"I don't imagine Futaba knows any foreign languages?" Akechi's voice is cobbled together, but he manages to intone a question mark at the end.

"Other than every computer programming language known to man, no," Akira laughs. "Man, getting Futaba to get a passport for that trip was a battle though. Bribery and deception every step of the way. Once she did it though, Sojiro was so proud, he bragged to the regulars for weeks. He'd have talked your ear off about it."

It's unintentional, citing the alternate universe in which Akechi still frequented LeBlanc. Was still a part of their group, had been left behind with the rest of them to eat pity ramen while the girls sipped fine tea in a Parisian lounge. Akira's breath catches and he glances at Akechi, whose hands have stilled for a moment.

"Do you," Akira asks nonsensically, "speak any languages?"

Akechi blinks, mouth opening, but before he can reply, a voice rings across the store.

"Register, please!"

A line of customers has formed and, flustered, Akechi hurries to attend.

It's hard work, working at a convenience store. Akira remembers that from when he occasionally took shifts at the Triple-Seven in Shibuya. Busy times are busy, and the last thing you need is someone distracting you from your work. So the next time Akira drops by, it really is only to buy tea. A few days later, a packet of masks.

"It's gotten cold, huh?" he mentions benignly of mid-October.

"Mm," Akechi grunts in agreement. He hands over the receipt, and Akira holds onto it the whole way home.

Sticks of gum, cheap coffee, hand cream, and magazines. Ice cream and canned fish for Morgana. It's creating normalcy, he figures, for the both of them. Establishing a new basis of reality in which Goro Akechi is alive and well and Akira can find him if he needs him. Can watch the wariness ease to resignation, ease to acceptance in the inexorability of repetition.

Still, there is still so much Akira needs to know, which is what lures him around the side of the building just as the night shift begins. It's taken him a couple of tries to get the timing right, but tonight he finds Akechi out back, sitting on an upturned recycling crate, and puffing white smoke to the crisp November air.

He looks up as Akira approaches, and he doesn't look surprised.

"Mind if I join you?" says Akira. He's got a can of nuclear-hot coffee in either jacket pocket. A thin, gray hoodie is draped carelessly over Akechi's shoulders, insufficient for the current temperature, but if he's feeling the discrepancy, he certainly doesn't show it.

Akechi exhales again, nods to the recycling bin Akira sat on before. He ashes into the plastic pouch cradled in his left hand.

Akira sits, digs his hands into his scorching pockets. "It's gotten cold, huh?" he says.

"Mm." Akechi takes a delicate pull.

"You smoke now," Akira comments.

Akechi chuckles some from his noise. "I thought I could do with a good vice," he says evenly.

"Better than murder," Akira agrees with a nod. "Coffee?"

He extends a can. The rim burns into his fingers.

Akechi stares at him, disbelief slacking his expression. His laugh is shaky and off-pitch. "Better than murder," he repeats, regarding the cigarette between his fingers. "Yes, I suppose so."

"Akechi," Akira says tightly. "You don't have to drink it or anything, but can you take this from me? My hand is burning."

"What? Oh." Akechi leans over and takes the can automatically. Stops as though realizing a mistake. He abandons it gently on the concrete. Akira shakes his.

"So," Akira says, cradling the can in a sleeve and snapping open the tab. "I had my first exam of the semester yesterday."

Akechi blinks. "Is that so," he says. He dips his mouth to the cigarette.

"I think I did alright." Akira squints at the property-line fence and takes a sip of coffee. It's more heat than flavor, but welcome in this chill. "Morgana seemed satisfied with my answers, anyway."

"You're in school," Akechi comments.

"Fourth year." Akira flashes him a straight face and a peace-sign. "I graduate next March."

"And then?"

"More school." Akira crosses his ankles. "Chasing after Makoto-paisen."

"Oh," says Akechi. He taps his cigarette twice. "So you two are...."

Silence completes his sentence.

"What?" Akira says, baffled for a moment. Akechi is regarding him dully, enduring the smalltalk. Akira laughs. "No, no," he says. "Not like that. Through law school," he explains.

"Law school?" Akechi's eyebrows lift. He buries his cigarette into the pocket ashtray, laughs through his nose. "You?"

"I thought it might be good to learn about laws." Akira smirks. "Just in case I need to break them."

"So that's your career plan," Akechi says dryly. "Crooked cop."

"I've left that to Makoto," Akira says. "I'm thinking more along the lines of morally-ambiguous flatfoot, or maybe ruthless prosecutor. Haven't decided yet."

Akechi coughs. "Sae-san must be proud."

"I don't think she believes I'm serious," Akira admits. He watches Akechi. "You could always make a comeback, you know," he says. "Put a stop to our new wave of infamy."

Akechi laughs, dropping his head and scratching the nape of his neck. "No thanks," he says loosely. "I think we both know how that ends."

An odd silence falls on them. Akira smiles.

"I'm not sure that I do," he admits. "But you might be right. Do you like working here?"

Akechi digs into his pocket, taps out another cigarette. "Does it matter?"

Akira shrugs. "Not really," he says. "I guess it's just better if you do."

Akechi lights his cigarette with the same deftness he works the cash register. His fingers are long, knuckles defined and delicate. Akira has a wild image of lighting that cigarette for him over the counter at LeBlanc. An actual memory of Akechi's slender hands coveting a saucer. Although they were gloved back then.

He blinks away the daydream.

"It's not that bad," Akechi concludes after his first exhale. "It's easy."

 _You're good at it,_ Akira thinks to say, and opens his mouth to do just that. "You should come back to LeBlanc sometime," he hears his own voice say instead. "I'm in the attic again, working part-time."

Akechi tenses. He doesn't say anything.

Embarrassment unfolds from Akira's stomach, but he swallows it back with a mouthful of canned coffee.

"How long have you been here?" he asks, ignoring himself too. Sometimes he's convinced another guy is running the controls. "With the company, I mean."

Akechi shakes his head. "A few years," he says vaguely.

"And before that?"

Because that's why he's here, Akira reminds himself. Before anything else, he needs to know. Needs to hear it from Akechi's mouth.

Akechi sighs. "Before that," he repeats heavily.

"Mm." Akira tips back another sip.

Akechi sighs again and passes a pale hand through his hair. It's considerably shorter now and draws greater notice to the dark hooks under his eyes. "What do you want to know."

"What happened," Akira asks quietly. "How.... What happened, Akechi?"

He wants to know everything. How Akechi survived, where he's been for the past five years. What he's been doing. When he cut his hair.

Why he didn't contact them. Why he simply disappeared.

Akechi smokes, posture relaxed under his lopsided hoodie, as though Akira is having this conversation by himself, and he just happens to be there. "Remind me?" he says.

"Shido's Palace," Akira prompts him, running through the Greatest Hits Montage his brain has memorized like a bad-ending. "We fought. Shido's cognitive version of you showed up. You saved us. You--" Akira gestures shapelessly. "Shot the door down. Made me promise." He breathes. "To end Shido for you. Then there were shots. And Futa--Oracle's radar went quiet. That was on our end." Akira is surprised to find himself curled over his knees, fingers clenched around the coffee can, which has gone tepid. He carefully relaxes his jaw.

Akechi listens to him, squinting into the darkness. He takes a long pull.

"I injured you," he says dreamily. "I remember that."

"You sure tried," Akira says with a shaky laugh. "But no offense, you got it worse." He sits up, tries to ride out of this tunnel-vision with good humor. "We beat the shit out of you."

Akechi snorts. "Yes," he says. "I remember something like that as well."

"I thought," Akira rubs his neck, "we had gotten through to you."

"You did."

"Then--" _Why didn't you come back?_ Akira thinks. "How did you get out?" he asks instead. "We...well, it seemed like you took each other out."

"In a manner of speaking," Akechi agrees calmly.

Akira frowns. "Then how--"

"I knew I wouldn't be leaving in one piece," Akechi explains. He glances at Akira, and finding him still clueless adds, "I'm a good shot, you know. Better than even Shido thought I was."

"I know you are," Akira says. For some reason, a horrible feeling has pooled at the bottom of his stomach.

"If I wanted that cognition dead, I could have killed it easily." Akira doesn't say anything, so Akechi continues. "So I did."

"You got it," Akira says softly. "And then--"

"I shot myself." Then as though realizing an error of ambiguity, Akechi clarifies. "Bang."

His index and middle fingers trace a shallow arc through the air from where they rested against his temple. Akechi drops his gaze. Places his cigarette to his lips again in an oddly childlike gesture.

Akira stares at him. "You," he breathes, and can't finish the sentence.

"It was strange," Akechi admits. "There was a split-second in which I thought that if I fought, I would somehow--" He stops. "But I couldn't let him get to you, and it was time. For me." Akechi stills. "I don't expect you to forgive me," he says.

"Is that why you didn't come back?" Akira says in a voice that isn't his.

"Didn't come back," Akechi repeats curiously. "Well, at first I didn't know what happened. I thought I was dead." He runs his hand through his hair again. "The instant -- the instant the bullet must have punctured my brain, I felt him rise up inside of me. Through me."

"Him?"

"Robin Hood." Akechi stares at Akira in sudden, rekindled fascination. "Loki withdrew, and it was like -- like they were moving on their own accord, like I wasn't-- Has that ever--?" He stops abruptly, gaze dropping again. "Not that it matters now," he mutters.

"It's never," Akira answers him anyway, shaking his head. "Not to me. That's.... Robin Hood protected you?"

Akechi shrugs. "The next thing I knew," he says, "I was back in the real world. And fairly injured, having had -- as you so eloquently put it -- the shit beaten out of me.

"I was disoriented," Akechi admits. "It took me awhile to regain my bearings and when I did, I--" He swallows. "I...."

"You left it to us."

Akechi laughs. "Yes," he says, taking an agitated pull. "I suppose I did."

"So we followed through," says Akira, "and -- well, it got a little more complicated than that, but you must have felt the Metaverse go down. We all did." When Akechi doesn't so much as blink, Akira blurts, "Why didn't you say something?"

Akechi's lips quirk in a sudden frown. "What did you expect?" he grumbles. " 'Hey gang, sorry about all the murders, I'm fine though so why don't we grab lunch?'"

"That would have been amazing."

"Don't patronize me."

"Then stop being coy." Emotions are whipping up like sandstorms within him, stinging in their conflict. Akira grips the lid of the recycling bin. "You should have said something. Let us know that you were okay. We worried. We thought you were--" He swallows. "You should have said something."

"Well," says Akechi dully, "I didn't."

" _Why?_ "

Akira has never been the fighting type. He's not like Ryuji, who has a rubber band that pulls inside him, stretches against his better reason and snaps with the sound of impacting fists. He's always been one to take it or talk it out, to live and let live within reason. But he can't find any reason in this. He can't keep the heat out of his voice.

Akechi's laugh is a shadow, cold and derisive. "You, of all people," he mutters, "would never understand."

"Yeah?" Akira grits, fingers digging into the unforgiving plastic. "What makes you so sure?"

"Because," Akechi sighs, "you have _everything_ , Akira." His eyes are black slits cut into his face, a mask of tragedy gone crooked. "And you always have. So you have _no_ idea what it's like to so decidedly and systematically have _nothing_." Akechi's posture is still loose, careless down to his fingertips, but his voice rasps. Cuts involuntarily. "You don't have even the _slightest_. Conception. Of what it's like to be. _Completely_. And _utterly_. Alone. What it-- The things I've had to--"

"You're," _Wrong_ , Akira wants to say, but he can't, he realizes. He can't. Akechi is right. Just not about everything. "You're not alone, you have us. _We're_ here. _I'm_ \--" This is happening all wrong.

"You." Akechi's lips twist hard. "And what good did you do, exactly?"

The cigarette has ashed up to his knuckles, gray kissing white, but Akechi is looking only at him. Akira can't place Akechi's expression, but he's seen flickers of it before. In the hallways of Shujin Academy and in the nasty rumors whispered just loud enough for him to hear. On his father's face when Akira first left for Tokyo.

 _A disappointment_ , Akira finally remembers the word. It was never a word that hurt, because the adults who used it were ignorant and therefore irrelevant to him.

It sears now.

"Right," Akira says finally. His anger has extinguished like flames from paraffin, heatless and innocent. He pushes slowly to his feet. "I'm...sorry to have bothered you, then."

Akechi says nothing. He drops his gaze to his crumbling cigarette.

"I'll go," says Akira.

Akechi doesn't look up. "Goodbye, Akira."

It's soft, but final. Akira nods once, slouches his hands into his pockets, turns on his heel, and leaves.

"Well," Morgana says, "Akechi's always had a fundamental unpleasantness to him."

"We all do," Akira says fairly, head viced between his hands, elbows digging into his knees. "Morgana, how do I fix this?"

They're sitting on his bed in LeBlanc's drafty attic, watching the space-heater glow to life in the center of the room. Morgana listened quietly as Akira recounted his evening with Akechi. His collar rattles with a cat-shrug.

"You gave it your best shot, didn't you?" he says. "You might not like this, but from where I'm sitting, he may not be worth the effort."

Akira shifts his hands just far enough to shoot Morgana a sharp look. "You're right," he says. "I don't like that."

"I'm just saying," Morgana sighs, tail flicking as it does when he lectures, "Akechi obviously has his own reasons for wanting to keep his distance. And with his track record, I'm not all that torn up about his decision." Akira opens his mouth to protest, but Morgana overrides him. "Just because Akechi didn't deserve to die doesn't mean he deserves you torturing yourself over what are ultimately his own problems."

"I'm not torturing myself," Akira mutters, "I just..." He trails off, and Morgana lets him. What _is_ he trying to do? What _does_ he expect to achieve by hounding Akechi, demanding they be friends again? What if Akechi has moved on, moved through his past in a way that Akira obviously has yet to?

"But suicide," Morgana muses. "That's fascinating. I would never have considered that as an option, but in a cognitive dimension like the Metaverse, it stands to reason." To Akira's silence, he offers, "I'll look into it. Information is probably harder to come by these days, but now that I'm thinking about it, I do remember hearing something about Persona-users using firearms to unleash their powers."

"Yeah," says Akira hollowly.

"Hey, cheer up," Morgana says, placing a paw on his knee. "I know things aren't going as you'd hoped, but it doesn't mean they won't work out for the best. Why don't you get some sleep? There's no point worrying about it when you're tired."

It's easy advice to take. And in the morning, on a full tank of energy, Akira realizes exactly with whom he needs to consult in order to solve this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Part two will hopefully be up soon. Feel free to comment, if you're feeling it<3


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments!! Work is keeping me busy at the moment, so I apologize for not replying individually, but I am so glad you folks are enjoying this fic so far. I hope this second part is also enjoyable.

"Akechi?" The fork speared with lettuce and a quarter of tomato lowers a few inches as Makoto stares. "He's alive?"

"And kicking," Akira says. He shovels down another mouthful of _kara-age_ and rice.

It's lunchtime and the university cafeteria is noisy enough for relative privacy. Akira explains everything, and Makoto listens, a tiny crease smushed between her manicured eyebrows. When he's done, she breathes out one long sigh.

"Wow," she says softly. "That's...that's a lot."

"I need you to not tell anyone," Akira says.

"I won't." Makoto lowers her fork completely, squinting as she processes.

"How--" Akira stops short of asking the same question that failed him with Morgana. "What's your take on this, senpai?"

Makoto hums and presses two fingers to her temple. "It's a tough one," she admits.

"Go on."

"On the one hand," she says carefully. "I can understand where Morgana is coming from. Akechi betrayed us, Akira. All of us: the Phantom Thieves, the police, my sister. And, most notably in this situation, you. I'm glad to hear he survived, but if he wants to keep his distance, I'm not about to argue with him."

It's only because he knows Makoto that Akira doesn't interject. She is his strategist after all, and only saying what he knows (deep down) to be correct. But he also knows Makoto has never truly been one for "correctness."

"On the other hand," Makoto admits.

"And this is the hand I'm interested in."

She shoots him a wry smile. "At least pretend like you want to act prudently."

"Never."

"It's a valuable skill," she insists, but continues anyway. "On the other hand, I know there's no changing your mind about this and, honestly, I don't really feel the need. Given everything you've told me, I don't read Akechi as a danger. Not that you shouldn't stay vigilant, of course."

"Of course," Akira dismisses. "So how do you think I should proceed here?"

Makoto sighs. "I'm not exactly the poster-child for successful social interaction," she reminds him.

"And I'm not the psychology double-major."

Makoto rolls her eyes. "Street-smarts like yours are infinitely more valuable," she says, "but fine. From my _strictly academic_ perspective, Akechi seems...well, like he's getting better, actually."

Akira stares. "Better?" he says.

"Yes," says Makoto. "Maybe also exhibiting some classic signs of depression, but that's part of it." When Akira only blinks, she continues, "Think about it: when we were in high school, Akechi was never...just upset or unpleasant in a normal, human way. He could be threatening or pitiable, but his pleasantness was his armor, and it was impenetrable. He was _nice_. And clever about it. And that made him a lot of fans, if not many actual friends."

It's a good point. The smooth veneer of high-school-Akechi's demeanor was a triumph over circumstance, his sheer determination made manifest. Akira knows that now. In customer service, Akechi still instinctually plays the pleasing game, but his eyes are tired. His smile breaks.

"Whether dropping that act is a conscious decision or just the product of his experience, I can't say," Makoto says, "but needless to say, he's changed -- and who could blame him? How he survived Shido's Palace alone is..." Her lips press in a thin line. "A lot."

"Yeah," Akira says quietly. "I didn't exactly handle that part well."

"It's upsetting," she agrees. "But the fact he was even willing to tell you that much -- to let you see him frustrated and disillusioned and tired -- that, to me, seems like pretty significant progress."

"Progress," Akira echoes, and the word has weight. "So in other words, the fact that things are, uh. Less-than completely ideal right now is..."

"Proof that Akechi is actually recovering from what he's been through," Makoto finishes. "That's my take on it, yes."

_And what good did you do, exactly?_ It still hurts to think about, but maybe Akechi didn't just say it because he thought it might.

"So you don't think he actually, like. Like, _actually_ hates me?"

Makoto laughs. "Probably not any more than anyone else does," she assures him with a wry smile. "If anything, he probably cares a great deal about you. I have the sense he always has. He's just...obviously not very good at showing it."

Akira laughs too, bobs his head. "Okay, cool," he says with a grin. "Rad."

Makoto's expression has leveled. "That part's important too, you know," she says.

"Huh?"

"Showing it." She's frowning again. "He doesn't get a free pass for being Goro Akechi. You can count me with Morgana on that front. Although, for whatever it's worth, I do give you both my blessing."

Akira clasps his chopsticks reverently with both hands. "But senpai, I'm too young to be a bride."

Makoto smirks, returns to her salad. "So then be a groom? However it works. Just so long as you're happy."

Akira laughs, but after a moment gets the weird sense that Makoto didn't mean it as a joke.

"...You know it's not like that with us, right?" Akira says, feeling suddenly anxious to clarify. "I'm not trying to...or anything, I'm just glad he's back. As a friend."

"Oh," Makoto's eyes widen and she dismisses the nuance with a hand. "Oh, no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make it sound like you were or like you had to or -- ! I just--" She sighs, shaking her head. "I just...hope you find that again. If you want it, anyway. That's all." She sighs again and laughs in self-deprecation. "I really have to put my foot in my mouth, don't I?"

"You didn't," Akira reassures her with a smile. "Thanks, Makoto. You're sweet."

Makoto's cheeks pinken. She stabs a tomato, assures him she isn't, and Akira thinks about it again.

_So you two are..._ Even Akechi had assumed, and Akira would be lying if he said he had never considered it. And from what his so-called "invaluable" street-smarts told him, Makoto had considered it too, once. Sharing complementary career paths certainly meant sharing a lot of other experiences, and those could easily add up to the strange tugging in Akira's chest.

It certainly doesn't help that Makoto's early twenties have launched her into a new level of gorgeousness that makes him look like a dusty file-cabinet by comparison. He'd have to pay good money to fake-date her at this point.

It makes Akira feel oddly proud to admit.

"Are you guys still eating? You're going to be late, Akira."

Pressure against his left calf announces Morgana's return.

"Ahnahfm," Akira replies mid-chew.

"Gross," says Morgana.

"I'm going ahead to the library." Makoto stands, cheeks still a little pink. "Let me know how it all goes."

"Thanks," Akira says, covering his mouth as he swallows. "Really though. Thanks, Makoto."

She smiles. "Anytime," she says. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

Akira returns the smile, lifts his hand in a salute. "Always do," he says.

Happily settled inside Akira's bag, Morgana gives a huge snort.

His phone buzzes at eleven thirty-two P.M. with the text, [dude whyy r girls freakin crazy?]

Akira wipes his face on his shirt and texts back [What did you do this time?] because while he'd love to side with his best friend, probability is against him.

Two pull-ups later and his phone buzzes again.

[i don't know!! thats the thing, she wont tell me so how the hell m i supposed to kno??]

Akira chews his lip and offers the best of his insight.

[Did you wish her a happy birthday?]

Ellipses dance at the bottom of the screen, then disappear. Then reappear. Then disappear.

[o shit] comes Ryuji's reply.

[You still have about 30mins] Akira offers helpfully.

[dude i am so dead]

[Don't die ryuji, there's still so much ahead of a bright young man like yourself]

[FCUk]

[Good luck]

[come 2 my funeral]

Inevitably the image rises, but not of Ryuji's.

A nondescript event. White chrysanthemums and a closed casket. They would have cried, despite what the headlines might have been, despite what the ignorant might have said. Akira might have visited a grave with flowers and conversation instead of mindlessly and hopelessly revisiting old haunts, just for a glimpse. Just in case.

But there had been none of that, even though Goro Akechi had been presumed dead by the world at large. His picture had disappeared from the public eye, name become an object of a nonexistent past. Now that Akira thinks about it, nobody actually seemed to care. Not one way or the other.

_You have no idea what it's like_

His phone's screen blurs and Akira tosses it onto the bed. His arms are heavy and cold, and he lets the boiler room swirl around him again, stands firmly in the center of that vortex as those two shots ring out.

_to so decidedly and systematically_

Tries to imagine waking up scared and disoriented, wounded in the bowels of some government building. Alone.

_I thought I was dead._

Tries to imagine realizing it wasn't over.

Akira tries to swallow down the past five years crawling up his throat, stinging the bridge of his nose, and staining his hazy vision. He tries not to feel it all, and he can't.

At seven the next morning, Akira emerges from LeBlanc, broom in hand, to sweep the walk as usual. November is cold mornings with lazy sunrises, and commuters are still shadows on the walk as they shuffle dutifully towards the station. So when Akira spots the thin, gray hoodie floating in the morning half-light, for a moment he thinks he's seen a ghost.

"...Akechi?"

"Here."

In a voice that's been awake for hours, Akechi calls to him. Akira barely doesn't drop the broom as he fumbles the bottle tossed in his direction.

"You seem to be the only one who purchases it," Akechi says calmly. "I'm afraid sales will drop."

8-Ten Roasted Green Tea, the label reads.

"I," Akira swallows, "was going to come today."

"Then I preempted you." Akechi digs his hands into his pockets in a distantly familiar gesture. "I wanted to. Preempt, I mean. I'm sorry," he says suddenly.

Akira blinks.

"I have a tendency of," Akechi begins. Abruptly changes track. "I don't want." That seems no good either. "Sales are low," he finishes lamely.

"Of tea," Akira says.

"Yes." Akechi is staring at a point somewhere around Akira's knee. "It would be a shame if." He stops again, sighs through his nose. "I'm sorry," he repeats.

"Don't be," Akira says, and his ears are ringing with it suddenly, head throbbing with the one word: _progress_. His hand tightens on the broom. "I didn't...I should apologize too."

Akechi shakes his head. His breath is white in the orange dawn.

"Do you," Akira says, swinging the broom-handle towards the front door, "want coffee? I can even give it to you to-go, if you want. We do that now."

Akechi shakes his head again and takes a step backward. "Another time," he says. "I've...got to get going."

"Okay," says Akira. His heart is alive in his mouth, chest aching with its absence. "I'll see you around then."

Akechi nods. "Yes."

"Gotta get that tea."

"We're depending on you," Akechi says listlessly. "I'm--" He stops.

Akira smiles. "Leave it to me."

Akechi nods, turns.

"Akechi," Akira blurts.

Akechi stops.

Akira lifts his hand, shakes the bottle in it. "Thanks," he says.

Breath puffs from Akechi's mouth, lips twitching upward in one moment of unguarded relief.

"See you," he says.

Everyone, Akira figures, has things that change them forever.

For him it was Kamoshida. In his short life of sixteen years, he had experienced a great deal of oddities, but being sentenced to death by his half-naked gym teacher in the bowels of a musty dungeon he could have sworn was his new high school took the crown. Kamoshida changed everything -- the Metaverse changed everything -- and it was around then that Akira realized there would be no going back; normalcy was shot.

"--Which," Akira concludes, leaning easily against the counter of his favorite convenience store, "I believed to be the total number of socks included."

Akechi deadpans him with two raised eyebrows. "Not to be rude," he says, "but who on earth counts socks in the singular?"

Friends, school, a scrubbed record, and studying for college exams. His girlfriend, a well-used curry recipe, and his sassy, sassy cat. These were what kept him together after the Metaverse disappeared and his upside-down playground flipped right-side-up again. Life, he discovered, had a way of continuing regardless of its consistency. Regardless of who it left behind.

"The shopping channel?" Akira suggests. He fidgets absently with the cover of his phone case. "Or distracted people. I may have been texting Ryuji at the time. He encouraged me."

"Well that explains it," Akechi mumbles. Then, "You're in the way. I'm sorry, I can help you right here!"

Akira pushes off the counter and loiters by the gum rack as Akechi rings up another tired suit. Otsuka is hunched in the snacks aisle, feather-duster in hand and not-so-subtly sneaking glances up at Akira, who extends her the courtesy of pretending not to notice. Mostly because he in turn is watching Akechi.

Tragic and prodigious Akechi, who oozes charisma even while exhausted and wearing a tacky 8-Ten uniform. Indefatigable and breathing. It's bizarre that he's still around; that he might not have been; that Akira had grown so accustomed to a reality in which the brilliant boy from the television studio no longer existed.

Just thinking about it makes his throat stop functioning properly.

The businessman leaves, and Akira magnets lazily back to Akechi's register. It's a slow Tuesday night, and Akira's Ethics exam is tomorrow.

"So I may have twenty-four pairs of Shock Socks," Akira confesses.

"Which brings us to the next vital question," Akechi says to the tablet he's wielding, "what, pray tell, are Shock Socks?"

Whatever drove Akechi all the way out to Yongen-jaya that morning has settled in his eyes, given body to his voice. He is by no means effervescent, but neither is he a vague animation of monosyllables. He is obstinate in the face of his own silence. Here.

"They're socks for athletes," Akira explains. "Particularly those who play high-impact sports."

Akechi's eyebrows lift higher. "Of which you play none."

"Of which I play none," Akira agrees, "but you can never have too much arch-support, in my opinion."

"So you bought twenty-four pairs."

"I thought twenty-four socks."

"That's still twelve pairs."

"I was going to split them with Ryuji!" Akira says. "But even he says he doesn't need twelve."

Akechi looks up from his work with a frown. "You're not suggesting," he says, and leave it to an ex-detective prince to pick up on subtext.

Akira beams, unzips his bag. "Don't say no."

"No," Akechi says immediately.

"You haven't even seen them yet."

"I don't engage in contact sports."

"You're on your feet all day," Akira reasons. He draws them from his bag, a pair of red, of white, and of mustard. "I only brought six. Three if you count in pairs." Akechi snorts and Akira smiles. "Please?"

Akechi stares at him reproachfully for a moment, eyes flicking once to the gaudy socks before extending his hand with a sigh.

"I don't dare comment on the color choice," he says wearily.

"Feel free to mix and match," Akira grins. "Don't worry, everyone is getting some. Well, except Morgana. And he says he's crushed."

"I'm sure," Akechi says dryly. "Am I getting you anything today?"

"Yes," says Akira. "A regular iced coffee and," he draws the folded paper from his jacket pocket, "tickets."

Akechi nods wordlessly, taps in his order, and fetches him a cup of ice from the cooler. When he returns, Akira has his phone at the ready, hovering over the pay-pad.

"Move," says Akechi suddenly. Akira blinks, glancing over his shoulder as for one wild moment he assumes another customer has arrived -- but no, _he's_ the customer --

The cash register beeps and Akira looks down to see Akechi's spidery hand where his had been moments before.

"Your coffee," Akechi says flatly, returning his own phone to his back pocket. "Consider it thanks for the socks."

Something flutters at the base of Akira's sternum. "They're Shock Socks," he says intelligently.

"Consider it thanks for the Shock Socks," Akechi corrects himself with a sigh. "Give me the ticket order and I'll get that started."

Akira nods dumbly, hands over the paper, and wanders to the coffee machine, cup of ice in hand.

The moment replays for him as the machine whirs to life. Akechi's phone was battered and white. No case and no charms. Surprising, Akira considers, for someone who had customized a metal briefcase with his initials back in high school, but that had been the same Akechi who used to smile at him like Akira had all the answers.

Not the Akechi of now, who waits outside on a cold November morning with a bottle of tea to apologize for a moment of justifiable frustration. Who flatly tells him to move so he can treat him to coffee.

It occurs to Akira that he doesn't know Akechi's current phone number.

The thing fluttering against his ribs kicks indignantly.

The bitter shoot of iced coffee rebalances him, and by the time Akira wanders back to the register, Akechi is carefully fitting two tickets into an 8-Ten envelope.

"If you'll sign here," Akechi indicates the box on the appropriate receipt and hands Akira a pen. Akira does as he's told. "Your tickets."

"Have you been?" Akira asks levelly, accepting the envelope. "To the aquarium."

"No," Akechi says, stamping the store receipt and slipping it into the register. "But I hear good things about it. I'm sure you two will enjoy yourselves."

Akira wants to ask who Akechi is thinking of. He almost does. But instead he says, "Would you like to?"

"What's that?" says Akechi politely.

"Would you like to go? To the aquarium."

Akechi frowns. "Why do y--"

He freezes, eyes suddenly wide. Ambushed.

"If you want," says Akira, lifting the envelope, "we should go."

"...We?"

The syllable Akechi utters is rocky and hot with something not far-off from anger. Panic shrivels up Akira's throat.

"You uh," he says hurriedly, "obviously don't have to, I just thought --" He's babbling. "It might make a change of pace -- since -- well. I'm always bothering you at work, and -- well. It's, uh. Obstruction of sales. Or. Something. Y'know?"

He's devolved to Ryuji-isms. Ten seconds ago, he had a perfect image of how he was going to handle this. He had even practiced in LeBlanc's bathroom mirror until Morgana loudly questioned the state of his bowels. He thought he was prepared for anything Akechi might throw at him, but if there's one thing about Goro Akechi that hasn't changed, it's his unpredictability.

The front door chimes open and Otsuka calls a tired greeting to the entering customer. Akechi ignores her.

"So," Akira says, rubbing the back of his neck. His collar feels clammy. "Should've gone for the planetarium, huh?"

Akechi blinks. "Beg pardon?"

"It was either the aquarium or the planetarium," Akira explains, and good, maybe he can ride this out as an amusing anecdote instead of a heartfelt suggestion gone wrong. "I've been to both, but I wasn't sure if you-- Well, anyway, Yusuke goes to the planetarium a lot, so if you didn't want-- Just, I've run into him before. And uh." So much for that plan. A laugh bubbles out over the failed wreckage of it, and Akira shoves the envelope into his pocket. "Next time," he cheerfully hard-stops.

"Wait," says Akechi. He lifts one finger in emphasis, and Akira shuts his mouth, shuffling out of the way of the incoming customer.

He waits. Beer and cigarettes and a packet of dried squid into a plastic bag, which swishes away. The front door chimes open again, slides shut.

"I'm sorry," says Akechi, and Akira has his mouth open to encourage him not to be when Akechi adds, "when?"

It's Akira's turn to blink. "What?"

"The--" Akechi swallows. "The tickets. When are they for?"

The panic that was struggling to choke Akira bursts.

"Whenever," he says blankly. "They're good until the end of the year."

"I see." Akechi nods, running a finger along the lowest row of register keys.

"So," Akira says, not daring to assume. "So you. You're game to see the jellyfish?"

Akechi grimaces. "If...I can be of adequate company," he says softly.

Triumph begins erupting in Akira's chest like the finale of a particularly flashy fountain show. "Sweet," he says. If Ryuji were here, they'd be high-fiving.

Akechi, staring distantly into some dystopic universe on the other side of his register's screen, looks a little less in the mood for celebration.

"They have more than just jellyfish, you know," Akira assures him. "In case jellyfish aren't your favorite thing. They have lots of other fish. Sharks. Crustaceans. Penguins too, I'm pretty sure. The small kind. There's a lot to see."

"I'm sure."

"We could make a day of it."

Akechi watches him, eyes beginning to narrow. But before he can put to voice whatever doubts he has, Akira blurts, "Can I have your contact info?"

It could be a trick of the fluorescent lighting, but Akira could swear Akechi suddenly looks less peaked than usual.

"I," If Akechi wants to lie about the existence of his phone, it's a card played too late. He swallows. "I suppose."

"Just so we can decide on the day," Akira assures him, his own phone already in hand. So it's a bit of a white lie, but he's hoping Akechi will forgive him that much.

Akechi's grimace is back, but he dutifully digs his phone from his back pocket.

Akira's palms are only a little bit sweaty as he scans the QR-code and presses the red "Add Friend" button under the plain text "Keiichi Suzuki." Akechi's profile picture is blank. Akira opens a new chat and sends him a sticker.

"Akira," Akechi reads absently as the notification buzzes his phone.

Akira grins. "That's me."

"I'll...let you know when I'm available, then," says Akechi, and he shoves his phone back into his pocket. Exhales in one short rush and grips the counter with his pale hands. "I honestly don't mean this to sound rude," he says to the register, "but--"

"I'm gone," says Akira, snapping his phone case shut and lifting his hands in retreat. He can't say what it is, exactly, but it's tangible.

Akechi nods shortly. "Thank you."

"Of course. Oh, just--"

It takes longer than he'd like to extract one ticket from the slightly bent 8-Ten envelope, which Akechi wordlessly accepts.

"Well you look happy," Morgana comments as soon as Akira slings his bag down onto the table in LeBlanc's attic. "It went well, I take it?"

Akira grins. "Yes," he says.

"Good," Morgana says, returning to his grooming with a satisfied lick. "Three down, twenty-one pairs to go. I'm surprised he accepted."

"Akechi's a bro," Akira says simply, digging through the remaining pile of socks. "You sure you didn't want the box?"

Morgana gives him a withering look. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"

"I'm a free man with my own imperative now, Morgana. Bedtimes no longer have relevance to me."

"Half the time I have no idea what comes out of your mouth," Morgana yawns. "Well, _I'm_ going to bed. Don't stay up too late; you have a test tomorrow, remember."

Come to think of it, he does. "Right," he says, flipping his phone case open and thumbing through the lock screen. His heart leaps when he sees three notifications affixed to the corner of his messaging app, but it's just a particularly involved advertisement from the drugstore in Shibuya.

He checks the chat log for Keiichi Suzuki anyway. Akira's sticker sits alone at the top of the screen where he left it, a little animated man who bows his wig off his bald head again and again. Akira watches the wig disaster on repeat and wonders if he should send something else. What he could say.

[Good seeing you today.] He taps it out with his thumbs, just to see it. [Thanks for trusting me with your contact info.] Which is a little awkwardly formal by itself, so, [I promise I won't sell it to anyone.]

Akira grimaces. [Lol] he tries adding.

Nah.

Draft two: [Hey good work today. Looking forward to seeing those jellies.] Morgana is curled up on the bed, nose tucked between his folded paws. [I can be free whenever just so long as my cat doesn't hear about it.]

Which is too sadly true to admit to anyone.

[eyyyyyyyyyyyyyy friend thanx 4 the (five consecutive coffee emoji) hit me up and we'll see the (fish emoji, whale emoji, penguin emoji, shark emoji, snail emoji, coral emoji)]

Yusuke might praise him for his contemporary use of art and modern technology. Ryuji would send him back something even more illegible. Akechi, Akira fears, might actually block him.

So he gives up. Douses his phone and kicks off his shoes. It'll happen. Akechi will text him and they'll hang out and they won't run into anyone they know and it'll be great. Everything will work out just fine.

In keeping with his successful rehabilitation, Akira doesn't dream about that jail cell anymore, but for the first time in awhile, he wakes up feeling the chains. Morgana is standing on his chest, and his cell phone is blaring its alarm. The sun is rising outside his window.

"Rise and shine," says Morgana. "Also, I'm hungry."

Akira wipes his face with a palm and silences his phone with a jab to the power button. Morgana hops off him and jingles his way downstairs in anticipation of breakfast. Akira would love five more minutes, but LeBlanc, as Morgana habitually reminds him, isn't going to open itself. With blurry eyes he checks his lock screen to see a new message sent a little before two in the morning. It is concise.

[I can be available this weekend.]

It is Wednesday, Akira Kurusu has an Ethics exam he hasn't studied for, and he is beaming at his phone like an idiot.

On Saturday, Sojiro grumbles into LeBlanc as he does every morning and shrugs off his coat. A puff of white, late-November air follows him in, and the door jangles shut. Akira finishes wiping down the last booth and opens his arms wide in dramatic welcome.

"Good morning, Boss," Akira says. "Curry's prepped and water's hot."

"Mornin'." Sojiro pushes his glasses up his nose, sweeping his store with a glance. "Thanks as always, kid."

It's the arrangement Akira haggled out of Sojiro when he returned to Tokyo for school four years prior. Sojiro had been gruff over the phone ("I'm sure you'll wanna stay in a dorm or something with kids your age instead of some old geezer's attic"), but Akira hadn't hesitated to accept his offer. In return he opens and closes LeBlanc during the week and picks up shifts on the weekends.

Just not today.

"Sorry for bailing," Akira says, plucking his apron open and stashing it under the counter.

"It's not bailing," Sojiro insists, pulling his favorite mug from the rack. "It's important to get out there and live your life instead of being cooped up in this place all the time. I hope you have fun with, uh...who did you say your friend was?"

Words Akira would never have heard from him back in high school, but Sojiro seems to feel unnecessarily responsible for his happiness these days, so Akira decides to cheer him up.

"Suzu-chan," he doesn't exactly lie. "It's a date."

He winks at Morgana, who, perched on the edge of the counter, rolls his eyes.

"Oh!" Sojiro's sudden cheer is tangible as music. "Well then, uh. You kids have fun. Don't stay out too late-- I mean." He clears his throat. "Just...call if you need me to open in the morning."

Akira laughs. "Don't worry," he says, "I don't think my luck's _that_ good."

Sojiro snorts. "With looks like yours, I imagine you don't need much luck," he says. He lifts his eyebrows at Morgana. "Keep an eye on him, will you? Make sure he's a gentleman."

"Easier said than done," Morgana sniffs, jumping obediently into Akira's outstretched bag.

"He says I'm always a gentleman," Akira incorrectly translates.

"I did not!!"

Sojiro laughs at Morgana's obvious refutation. "Careful out there," Sojiro says, lifting a hand in farewell.

"It's going to be fine," Akira reassures Morgana on the way to the station.

"I told you," Morgana hisses from his bag, "I'm not sure I trust him yet. Stopping by his workplace from time to time is one thing, but this--"

"It's not actually a date, you know," Akira says facetiously. "That was just for show."

" _I know that,_ " Morgana says, and goes as far as popping his head out of Akira's bag, paws on his shoulder. "This is Akechi we're talking about. I just wish you'd stop and think rationally about this for a second."

"Rationally about what?" He's gathering smiles for having a cat on his shoulder, and while the positive attention is nice for a change, it makes it harder to talk to himself in public. "What's Akechi going to do, walk me around the aquarium to death? He's harmless, Morgana."

"And that might be exactly what he wants you to believe. You're moving too fast."

"Weren't you the one who told me to just let it happen?" He chases a blinking green light across the zebra crossing. "It's happening. I invited him, he accepted, we're going. This is what friends do."

"I'm not saying don't be friends with him," Morgana says exasperatedly. "I'm saying be vigilant. He used to work with the police, you know. And that was while he was actually working for Shido. Akechi's never been the person you thought he was, and until we find out who he actually is--"

"Well, then today should be a great opportunity to do just that." Morgana still looks unsatisfied, so Akira pats his head. "Worrywart."

"I'm not," Morgana mutters, and ducks back into the bag. "You're just reckless as always."

He takes the Inokashira Line to Shibuya, then the Fukutoshin to Ikebukuro, and when he arrives it's ten o'clock and he's an hour early. He crosses through the sunny intersection that will be thrumming come afternoon and searches for a store to kill time in.

It ends up being the used bookstore above a roaring pachinko parlor. Akira wanders aimlessly, reciting some of the more alluring titles for Morgana, who advises him on how each selection might improve his life. (Some more than others, apparently.)

"Wait, what about the fashion magazines?" Morgana whines as Akira loops to the exit.

"Oh, right."

"Find the _Non-Nons_ ," Morgana commands regally, and Akira knows how to do what he's told.

They have a back-issue in stock: July from two years ago, and Ann is wearing a two-piece swimsuit. Akira remembers when she got the offer. It was her second cover gig with a major magazine, and she had been over the moon about it.

Ryuji less-so.

"I mean, of course I'm happy for her," he had grumbled over ramen. "Really. I know how hard she's worked for this, I know, I just--" He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "How many guys you think are gonna get off on it, huh?"

"Considering the population of lonely dudes in Japan," Akira mused, "probably a lot. And that's not even considering folks like Morgana--"

"Dude!!" Ryuji yelped, horrified. "I didn't need you to answer that seriously!!"

Akira laughed. "Why don't you just tell her how you feel?"

"No way, man," Ryuji muttered, staring glumly into his leftover soup. "You know she'd just laugh at me. We're not...a guy like me and a girl like her.... Look, she just doesn't see me that way, okay?" He sat with this for a moment, then slapped his own face with two palms and jumped to his feet. "Gah, I'm going for a run! Right now!"

Akira pointed at his bowl. "You left soup."

Ryuji downed it in two gulps and only spluttered a little on his way out.

It took three more months, but eventually Ryuji plucked up enough courage to have Ann prove him wrong.

Despite his bookstore detour, Akira is still fifteen minutes early when he arrives at the escalators descending into the walkway to Sunshine City.

"Well," says Morgana, mood notably improved after a perusal of Ann's pinups, "I'll catch up with you later, I guess."

"Have fun," Akira says, letting him hop out of his bag. "Don't get cat-napped."

"Same goes to you." Morgana fixes him with one intent, blue stare. "Remember what I said."

"Yes, yes."

Morgana slinks away, and Akira pulls out his phone to notify Akechi of his arrival when he sees him.

White baseball cap and that same, light-grey hoodie. Worn, grey jeans and worn sneakers. He's one-handedly scrolling through something on his phone and looking nothing less than completely unapproachable in a black surgical mask.

Akira approaches him anyway.

"Hey," he says.

Akechi looks up, surprised. He pulls the mask down a fraction. "Hello," he says.

"You're early," says Akira.

"I," Akechi's eyes dart their surroundings. "So are you."

"Yeah." Akira laughs a little. "I came straight here after opening, so I had time to kill." He opens his mouth to continue, but before he can, two things occur to him.

One, that he is nervous. And two, that Akechi is only here because Akira asked him to be.

It should feel familiar, like it did back in high school, when, as the leader of the Phantom Thieves, Akira sent a summons and his team assembled. But his pulse is thrumming with a different timbre now, mind suddenly racing with images of Akechi turning off an alarm clock; zipping up a hoodie; riding a train into town; and arriving fifteen minutes early to stand in the cold for no other reason than to wait for _him_.

It's a powerful thought, and his shoulders prickle with it.

"Should we head over?" Akira says, his own voice foreign to him.

Akechi hesitates, but he pulls the mask from his face and nods.

The last time Akira visits the jail of his soul, it is when he is actually in prison.

When he wakes up in the cell more familiar than the one with white walls, he knows something is probably amiss. For one, his wrists are free of chains; for another, the usually barred gate is open, and manning the warden's desk is not Igor but Lavenza. Steam rises gently from an idling teapot and the small table is set for two.

Lavenza smiles and gestures with a slender, welcoming hand. "Hello, Akira."

"This is a dream," Akira says, but he isn't about to snub its generosity. He joins her at the table, rubbing his wrists self-consciously.

In keeping with dreams, his empty teacup is suddenly filled, tea floral and steam lush. His first sip is tangy. Burns his tongue.

"You find yourself imprisoned once again," Lavenza says, but it's less esoteric claptrap than pleasant icebreaker.

"Can't be helped." Akira takes another gulp of tea, relishing in the burn; "tepid" seems to be the temperature of choice in prison.

"You don't blame him," Lavenza observes.

"Who, Akechi?" Akira plays dumb with his own subconscious. "Of course not."

"He could have saved you," Lavenza says. "He could have spared you this."

Akira laughs, but it isn't a relief. None of this is: reliving the same stuck thoughts in his sleeping hours now, as well as his waking. Solitary confinement, it turns out, is a little more than just the boredom of being separated from social media. It is conversations with yourself that you can't finish, or finish too well. It is you and your breath and your thoughts and the tasteless meals that come sliding through a slot in your door at meaningless intervals.

It is being undisputedly and irrevocably alone, things that Akira Kurusu is decidedly not.

"No, he couldn't," Akira says, shaking his head. "Akechi is dead." His tea is tepid suddenly.

"He isn't," Lavenza says quietly, "and you know that."

"I wouldn't make him do this," Akira matches her tone. "Not any of them. Not any of them."

And the sight of each of his friends in their own jail cell, dull-eyed and lonely is the one thought that keeps Akira grounded, reminds him what makes this patience worth it.

He thinks again of Futaba and her cold frustration on Christmas Eve. How upset she was to be lied to. He wonders if he's ever going to see her again. If he'll ever get the chance to explain.

"Akira." Lavenza is touching his wrist, and Akira means to voice his surprise, to make a joke about being irresistible even without access to the baths in Yongen-jaya--

"I'm never making it out of here, am I?" he babbles instead. His voice is shaky, popping from his throat all wrong. This is all wrong. Things were never meant to go this way.

Lavenza smiles, pressure warm on his wrist. "You will overcome this," she says. "This is not the end of your story, Joker."

Akira kneads his eyes with a palm, wipes his nose with the back of his hand. Lavenza continues.

"Do you think us so clumsy as to pick heroes unable to overcome the tasks set before them?"

Akira thinks of him dully, the black mask driving deep into Akechi's face, the screamed laughter, the rage, the desperation--

The last image of him standing proud, gun swinging away to shoot the spitting image of himself, the roar of the steel door slamming down to protect them. To protect Akira.

_Promise me... You can't say no, can you?_

The silence.

"But why me?" Akira asks finally.

Lavenza's smile softens, thumb pressing a single stroke of golden warmth into his pulse.

"Well," she says as Akira feels sleep take him again, "were we wrong?"

"And this," Akira says, "is what they call a Boring clam."

In keeping with the off-season, the aquarium is empty for a Saturday, but that's only a standard relative to the biggest city on earth. They ride a slow stream of onlookers past huge panes of water behind glass. The air is close, the light blue, and Akira's left side hums with the shape of Akechi mere inches away.

"Oh?" Akechi hums curiously at the mouthing clam with bright, blue fringes. "Seems perfectly exciting to me."

"What?" Akira says, before he understands and laughs. "A joke?"

"Perish the thought." Akechi scans the plaque describing the Boring clam's unique attributes (indeed, none of which include dull conversation). "You must come here often."

"Just enough to know which signs to read so that I sound intelligent," Akira says. "Nah, I like coming here. It's dead on weekday afternoons, so you get the whole place to yourself. Well, mostly. It's also a popular spot for senior centers, so. Just me and the old people. And sometimes Morgana, when we're feeling sneaky."

"You like it here," Akechi reflects neutrally.

Akira shrugs. "It's a place," he says, shoots Akechi a grin. "We've all got 'em. What about you?"

"Me," Akechi echoes.

"Favorite haunts?"

"Haunts." Akechi considers this, watching goldfish flick by in slips of red, orange, and gold. One of his shoulders lifts and drops. "None worth mentioning."

His expression is complicated. Esoteric bordering on tragic and everything about Goro Akechi that Akira used to turn over and over in his brain like a faulty Rubik's cube. Akechi is staring into the tank as though the glass is no barrier at all, as though, if he put his mind to it, he could step through and into the suffocating tank himself. His lips are pressed and pale. Eyes dark.

Akira knocks him with an elbow and turns away. "C'mon," he says. "Wait till you see the jellyfish."

It's around the time when Akira regrets (for the thousandth time) not etching the days into his cell wall like they do in the movies that he gets his first and last visitor in prison.

She's waiting for him on the other side of the bullet-proof glass, suit doubly official against its bleak surroundings.

"Good news," says Sae Nijima the second he sits on the hard stool and presses the phone receiver to his ear.

"You found him," says Akira, and these are the first words they're speaking to each other in. Well. He's not sure, exactly.

"What?" Sae says, her already darting eyes narrowing as they track his face. "What are you talking about?"

Akira blinks. "No..." Shakes his head to clear it. "Sorry, never mind. Hi, Sae-san."

"Hello," says Sae.

"How's the gang?" This is a real conversation, right? Akira tries for a smile.

"Don't push yourself," Sae says, and Akira can't recall how to describe her facial expression. "You're getting out of here. Next week."

Time comes rushing in to meet him, hits him like water roaring from a broken dam down parched earth. Akira blinks, and his vision grows sharper.

"A week," he repeats. That's seven days. "I'm out?"

"You've been exonerated. Shido's original witness confessed to perjury, and we had your case dismissed." Sae smoothes the furrow between her brows with a manicured finger. "It took more time than I would have liked. I apologize for that."

"I," Akira begins, but can't even imagine how to finish his sentence, so he settles for laughter. Shaky. Elated. "How long have I been here?"

Pain flashes across Sae's face, but she answers him calmly. "Forty-five days," she says.

"Gotcha." Akira nods vaguely. "Everyone still remembers me, right?"

Sae snorts. "To a painful degree," she says. "It's largely thanks to them and their cooperation that we were able to turn this case around. I have to hand it to the Phantom Thieves -- your bonds of trust and loyalty are remarkable. They're all waiting for their hero to come home."

Sae is now smiling at him like he's just that: the hero sent away to take one for the team. Like all that's left is one more week before he's welcomed back into the fold, no questions asked. Like nothing ever happened.

"But he didn't," Akira hears himself speaking, "show up, did he?" He watches Sae's expression soften as she gets there, her lips pressing a pale line. "Akechi," he clarifies.

"No," she says reluctantly. "Still no trace of his whereabouts, I'm afraid."

Akira's heart sinks. "Ah," he says.

"I'm sure you want a lot of answers," Sae guesses.

Akira swallows, fingers fake on the plastic receiver. "Something like that," he says.

"My advice," says Sae curtly, "is to keep your head down this week and look forward to seeing your true friends on the other side." Akira watches her face, but Sae's stern expression doesn't budge. "You're going to be okay, Akira."

Akira swallows, and his mouth opens to reply when the buzzer sounds and Sae's visiting time is up.

"Oh."

Akira's favorite jellyfish are in the pillar tank at the very end of the exhibit. They are the Blue Jellyfish, dubiously-named considering that their actual coloration also includes pearly white and a blood-red that looks black in half-light. Akira likes them because they are small, cute, and puff through the jet-stream of bubbles in fits of vigor before falling inexplicably listless. Akira could watch them rise and fall for hours, but he knows they are not the poster-jellies of Ikebukuro's famous aquarium.

"Akechi," Akira says, folding his arms as they stand in the glass tunnel under hundreds and hundreds of drifting Moon Jellyfish, "that didn't sound like the 'oh' of a man who's finally discovered the secret to happiness itself."

Akechi shoots him a sharp glance, but his shoulders soften when he catches Akira's expression. "I'm sorry," he says, "did it not convey?"

"It was lacking, but you can try it again."

"Alright. _Ohhhhhhhh_ ," Akechi drones, and the sound is so saccharine and unnatural that Akira cackles. Akechi shakes his head, but his lips are crooked.

"Aren't they cute?" Akira says, lifting a hand to hover over the glass.

Akechi shrugs. "I suppose," he says. He tips his head back to examine the curved ceiling above him and the glowing puffs of white light in indigo water. "I confess I'm not terribly convinced on the happiness aspect, however."

Akira's not terribly convinced either. He only said that to tease Akechi, to see if he could lighten the bizarre mood slung between them. The jellyfish at Sunshine City aren't, in his opinion, the secret to anything.

But he finds himself saying, "Why not?"

Akechi gives him a wry look. "You're being facetious."

"Maybe." Akira shrugs. "But then again," he singles out a jellyfish on the smaller side of average, drifting lazily about a foot above their heads, "what if that's it? The secret to happiness."

"That one jellyfish," Akechi clarifies flatly.

"Yeah." Akira grins. "What'd you do?"

"What would I _do?_ " Akechi repeats disdainfully. "If that one jellyfish were the secret to happiness?" He studies the pearly white creature, considers the question. "Isn't it obvious?" he says finally, lips hollowed into a smile. "I'd destroy it."

Akira's grin widens. "Oooh, edgy."

Akechi snorts. "Well, what would _you_ do?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Akira mimics, tracks the jellyfish's fluid progress. "I'd steal it."

"How appropriate." Something has crept into Akechi's voice like a stent into dark groundwater, forgotten avenues that aren't good and aren't safe. It sends shocks into Akira's stomach, electrifies his throat. "Ever the noble thief."

"Who says I'd be noble about it?" Akira says, voice lower than he intended. Akechi's shoulder is so close to his. "Maybe I'd keep it all to myself."

A soft sound opens at the back of Akechi's throat. Then, haltingly, "What about that isn't noble?"

"Huh?" Akechi's confusion confuses Akira, and just as he's turning to look, he hears called from his other side,

"Akira?"

And, turning to his left instead, finds himself face-to-face with Yusuke Kitagawa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And we leave it on a bit of a cliff-hanger! I will be back with the third and final part as soon as I can. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and feel free to leave a review if you're feeling it.


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And without further ado, part three! I apologize that it took me so long to post, but I hope you find some part of it worth the wait. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this far and for all your lovely, lovely comments!! It is pure delight knowing that folks are reading and enjoying my work, and I hope this final chapter doesn't let you down.

A moment passes in perfect silence before action comes crashing through Akira's brain like a gust of heavy music.

"Yusuke!" he says, pivoting on his heel so he has his spine pressed to Akechi's shoulder, blocking him from view. Or so he'd like to believe -- no matter how dim the lighting is, unless Akechi stoops a little, he's still taller than Akira.

Then again, from the look of shock painted across Yusuke's face, his feeble attempt to conceal Akechi might be too little too late. A whole different sort of electricity is bubbling in Akira's throat now, terrific and sickening, and he can feel Akechi tense behind him as the moment stretches. The jellyfish exhibit dead-ends on itself; the only exit is the mouth of the narrow tunnel behind Yusuke. If Akechi ends up running, it will be at the cost of blowing his cover and potentially everything Akira has been trying to rebuild. 

So Akira starts talking. 

"Wow, what a surprise," he says brightly, trying to communicate through the square-inch of connection he's keeping with Akechi that it's going to work out, that he'll take care of it. "How many times does this make? Running into you here. I mean, at Sunshine City. Usually on the planetarium side, though...right? I didn't, uh...I didn't know you liked the aquarium too!"

"I know..." Yusuke's voice is low. "I only meant to attend the afternoon showing of the planetarium's new star show, but on a whim thought it would be inspirational to tour the aquarium as well.... Who could have thought the muses were leading me to you?!"

Yusuke's eyes are sparkling. Akira beams back. Akechi's hunched shoulder twitches. 

"This must be destiny," Yusuke is muttering, drawing a hand to his lips as his darting eyes weave together invisible strands of artistry. Akira leans back ever-so-slightly, and Akechi gets the picture, slowly turning away. "This must be...ah yes...I see!! I understand now!! Akira!!"

"Yes!" Akira jumps and Akechi freezes again.

Yusuke steps forward and snatches up Akira's hands. "You must accompany me to the star show today!"

"Mm!" Akira blinks up at Yusuke and pats absently at his big hands as he tries to think. Akechi has become a fixture of the aquarium itself, an uncomfortably lifelike statue, but he needs to move. He needs to walk straight to the end of the exhibit, where the Blue Jellyfish are and where the light is dim enough to properly disappear. "Star show! Gee, I--"

"The title is 'Space: Objectified.' and the reviews promise it to be 'a relatively satisfying forty-five minute experience of interstellar history as told through the lens of space junk.' The idea being that as inanimate objects, space junk is powerless to the forces inflicted upon it by human exploitation and the destiny of the greater universe. At first I was skeptical as trash is, almost by definition, everything beauty is not, but then I remembered that in order to fully grasp a topic, one must also grasp what it is not, so I think it will prove to be very helpful to my development as a creator of exquisiteness. Meeting you here today has only solidified this resolve, so -- you will accompany me, won't you?" Yusuke suddenly frowns. "Akira, I believe that you are stepping on someone."

"Huh?" Akira squeaks, glances over his shoulder at Akechi. "Oh! H-haha, you're right, uh. Sorry man, didn't notice."

Akira separates himself, and Akechi moves quietly, pointedly examining the opposite wall of jellyfish as he loops gracefully away. 

Yusuke is staring expectantly at Akira.

"Y'know Yusuke, that sounds like a, uh...like a really interesting show," Akira says, watching past Yusuke's shoulder as Akechi successfully disappears around the corner. "But I've actually got something right after this, so I can't this time, but um--" Leaving him like this might only inspire Yusuke to walk him to the exit, which he can't afford. "Have you seen the Blue Jellyfish? Talk about the futile struggle against the flow of destiny. There's nothing more inspirational than that."

Finding Akechi's silhouette cut in front of the aquarium's center tank is a quiet feeling. 

"To be perfectly honest," Akechi says as soon as Akira arrives, "I've never liked aquariums."

Akira chuckles and rubs his neck, too emotionally exhausted at this point to feel embarrassed. " _Really_ should have gone with the planetarium," he sighs. 

"Oh," says Akechi, "I didn't mean to imply that I'm not enjoying myself. The last time I came to an aquarium was on a school trip, is all. I found it claustrophobic." A shark noses lazily by, mouth half-open.

"It's a lot of water," Akira says fairly, then stops. "You're enjoying yourself?"

He led Yusuke to the pillar tank, left him and his sketchbook in a fit of delight. He'll probably be occupied for a little while longer, so Akira can ask this. He can take the time.

Akechi's smile is wry. He doesn't meet Akira's eyes. "Isn't it obvious?"

The words bunch in Akira's throat. His laugh is senseless. Cathartic.

"I thought my heart was going to stop," he mutters, rubbing his thumb-knuckle between his eyebrows. 

"Never a dull moment with you," Akechi agrees. "That much hasn't changed."

Akira's chest feels liable to detach and float off at any minute. "Listen, I distracted him with some quality jellies and a does of existentialism, but he'll be headed to his show soon, so--"

"'Space: Objectified.'"

Akira coughs with laughter. "Wanna catch it??"

"Oh yes," Akechi says dryly. "Please, let's. But only if we're assured seating directly behind his."

Akira's laughing too much to be playing this cool, but somehow he doesn't care. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "You eat lunch?"

Akechi's lips are curved. "I have been known to."

"Before you say anything--!"

Akira blinks, one socked foot over the threshold of her bedroom. "'Sup?"

"Noooooooo!" Futaba wails, spinning in her desk chair and battering her forehead with the heels of her palms. "I said _before_ you say anything!! Now you've said something, and now I have to figure out another way to tell you thisssssss...!!"

Akira smiles, confused, so he lifts up the plastic bag he's holding. "I brought chips?"

"Legendary!!" Futaba extends her arms and snatches at the air in his direction. Akira moves obediently to her and delivers the bag. The windows open on her computer screens are filled with the same hyper-genius gibberish as always. He smiles fondly, plops a hand on top of her head. 

"So?" he says. "You had something to tell me?"

Futaba grumbles, ripping into a bag of steak-flavored chips. "I did," she says, "but now I'm recalibrating."

"M'kay." She offers the bag and Akira pinches some chips himself. Recalibrating is important, after all. 

It takes a few minutes of crunching. 

"It's not good news," Futaba says finally.

"Okay," says Akira. Laughs. "Do I need to sit down?"

Futaba just bites her lip.

"...What's up?" says Akira, starting to feel genuinely unsettled. He drops his hand to her back, and Futaba squints at her screen. 

"I'm...frustrated with myself," she says. "Because this doesn't happen to me. I don't...I don't get nothing, y'know? I'm supreme. I've leveled-out the hacker class. There should be nothing I _can't_ find."

"What is this about?" Akira says at the very moment he understands. "Oh. ...Oh."

"I'm sorry," Futaba blurts, and she really looks it. "I know how much this meant to you. Meant to all of us. But as far as the data shows, Akechi isn't...well, he isn't _anywhere._ " Her mouth twists shut, and she ducks her head. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't be," Akira says, shelving the feeling for another time. He pulls Futaba against him and she hugs his waist, buries her face against his stomach. Akira strokes her hair. "Thanks for looking. I really appreciate it."

"I'll keep looking," Futaba promises him, voice muffled against his shirt. "I will. I've still got tags set up all over, so if anything new comes up, I'll know, and I'll tell you pronto."

"Cool," Akira says, his voice brightly artificial. "But hey, don't worry about it. You're the best there is, and if you haven't been able to find anything after all this time, then it probably means--" Akira smiles himself quiet. "It'll be okay."

"But will _you_ be okay?"

Futaba's eyes are watery, hands locked behind his back. He smiles down at her, pushes a thumb under her glasses.

"Yeah," he says. "Without a doubt."

Futaba scowls. "I told you not to pretend with me anymore," she says, and for as lovely as Akira generally finds his girlfriend, her expression now is nothing short of terrifying.

He laughs defensively. "I'm not pretending!" he promises. "I will, I'll be okay. I mean, I'm sad, obviously. But I'll get over it. I'll be fine."

"...Okay." Apparently satisfied, Futaba sighs, leans her head against Akira's stomach again. "You're not alone, okay? I'm here and...and we're all here, and we all care about you (though I care about you the most, okay, I don't care, I'll fight Ryuji). So if there's anything else I can do, you'll tell me, right?"

"Yeah," Akira smiles down at her. "Thanks, champ. You're a lifesaver."

Futaba hums. "Anything for a pretty boy like you." She pauses. "Wanna eat chips?"

"Do I ever."

They eat lunch. Ramen, at a greasy-looking place that has space for two at the counter, sandwiched between a salaryman and a trio of rowdy high-schoolers. They talk about dumb stuff, about anything. Memories of aquariums and school trips, episodes from a convenience store and hijinks from university. Tokyo as a city, the weird trouble Akira's found himself in, the weird customers Akechi's found himself faced with. 

Having eaten, they wander. Past the long lines snaking from movie theaters, past giggling girls queuing outside cafes, past shoe-store employees screaming their sales. They pass a bookstore, and Akira remembers he's been assigned reading. 

"The burdens of educated youth," drawls Akechi as he follows Akira into the store. 

Akira rakes his bangs. "The price I pay for being this attractive and intelligent."

"Ever suffering for the greater good, I see."

One purchase from the Philosophy section later finds them in Photography, browsing pretentious coffee-table books. 

"What about hobbies?" Akira asks. "Still bouldering?"

Akechi tilts his head thoughtfully. "You remember that," he says.

Akira grins. "Why wouldn't I?"

Akechi chuckles soundlessly, snapping shut the book of mountain-scapes and replacing it on the shelf. "I suppose I should have expected nothing less," he says, but doesn't elaborate. 

It's only when they're passing through the magazines on the way out that Akechi says, "What about you?"

"Hmm?"

"Hobbies." Akechi doesn't meet his eyes, stares idly at the magazines as he asks. "Do you have any?"

"Hm." Akira considers this, tapping his lips with a finger. "I like a lot of things, which probably boils down to not having any real hobbies at all." Not since the greatest hobby of all time was cancelled on account of saving the mortal universe, anyway. "I dunno, fashion maybe?"

Akechi blinks. "Fashion?"

Akira grins, quirks an eyebrow. "Skeptical?"

Akechi steps back and sweeps a critical gaze from Akira's shoes to his collar. "Not necessarily," he concludes.

Akira spreads his arms, preens. "So it's a Look, is what you're saying?"

Akechi's laugh escapes too quickly, seems to surprise him on the way out. He moves away, calling back over his shoulder, "It's acceptable." 

They leave the bookstore, and Akira suggests the arcade; Akechi has no objections. It's been awhile since Akira's played Gun About, but after an embarrassing round, he remembers some of Shinya's tips and tricks. Akechi is indeed still as good a shot as he professed himself to be, and still much better than Akira. 

"Not as young as I used to be," Akira says, dramatically wiping his forehead after the fifth round and a middling score. 

Akechi stopped playing after round three. "Age is a terrifying disease," he agrees. 

They explore the rest of the eight-floor arcade. Akira suggests the _purikura_ photo booths; Akechi has objections.

"It'll be good to remember the day by!"

"I assure you my memory is functional enough to remember today without a deformed photograph as a souvenir."

They end up in the basement with the crane games. 

"Are you any good at these?" Akechi asks.

Akira shrugs. "Highly mediocre," he says, breaking a thousand-yen bill into coins. "You?"

Just as mediocre, Akechi assures him.

They try, but twenty minutes and three thousand yen later, neither of them are any richer in candy, random anime figurines, or stuffed animals.

"I was so close!" Akira swears, clenching his fist with elated frustration as they climb the stairs. 

"You really had your heart set on that salmon-filet stuffed-animal."

"I thought it might work as good collateral someday," Akira explains, then remembers he's supposed to meet his tiny mob boss soon. They've emerged onto Ikebukuro's main street, now bright with illuminated signs and dense with slowly awakening nightlife. 

Akira checks his phone. Six forty-eight. He and Morgana didn't agree on a specific time to reconvene, but no matter how he thinks about it, today's outing has lasted far longer than even Akira could have hoped. _Time flies,_ he thinks, feels like saying, and opens his mouth to do just that when Akechi suddenly speaks. 

"I wonder." Akira looks up from his phone. Akechi is watching him evenly. "Would you be adverse to having dinner?"

For a moment, Akira's mind blanks. 

_If anything, he probably cares a great deal about you._ Makoto tilts her head. _I have the sense he always has._

Akechi pointedly doesn't meet his eyes. _Consider it thanks for the socks._

 _It's a date._ Morgana is unimpressed by his joke.

_I just wish you'd stop and think rationally about this for a second._

Akira runs to make the light, insists he is.

_You're moving too fast._

"No," Akira says. Winter air is cutting mercilessly into his neck, but he at least remembered to bring a coat; Akechi is only in that careless gray hoodie. He has to be freezing. Akira smiles. "I've been known to have dinner."

It's sometime after everything has settled down.

The gang is over at LeBlanc, raucously over-occupying a booth after hours, and it is an echo of their old study sessions from high school. Makoto is the only one who still has books out, but her concentration is half-hearted. Yusuke, Haru, and Morgana are pouring over a magazine feature of erotic woodblock-prints from the Edo period, and Futaba and Ryuji are providing choice commentary. Ann alternates between elbowing Ryuji in the ribs and feeding a distracted Makoto bites of her cake. 

Akira is behind the counter, wiping mugs and smiling. 

It's a moment of peace, a spell of hard-won frivolity in a world that came so close to losing it all. Their challenges now are restricted to those of general consciousness: test deadlines and relationship woes, desire and ambition and loneliness. These are the Phantom Thieves now, he thinks, as Futaba shrieks and makes a grab for the magazine at the sight of tentacles. Retired superheroes reading historical pornography.

His lips twitch, and he looks to the empty bar stool in front of him. 

It's unrequited habit by now. A useless gesture, but Akira conjures up the image anyway: chin on a gloved palm, empty coffee cup nestled in its saucer. One brown eyebrow arching as they exchange a look, a knowing smile.

Futaba comes charging around the counter, excitedly shows Akira the graphic, and he can easily imagine Akechi leaning forward to catch a glimpse.

"Wow," says Akira. "That's one industrious octopus."

Maybe Akechi would have laughed. Maybe he would have said something witty or flattering. Maybe an unexpectedly dirty joke that would have Futaba bantering delightedly and Ryuji a little flustered. Haru and Ann would tease him until one of Yusuke's unintentional one-liners brought them all to tears of laughter and Makoto insisted they're being too loud. They would stifle their enthusiasm poorly, Akira grinning to hurt his teeth and Akechi stoppering his own lips with a fist. 

It's a reality that seems as true as anything, a timeline that's surely hiding out there somewhere. After all, how could something as surreal as the Metaverse exist, but not one evening where the Phantom Thieves are young and mischievous and whole?

Not that the Metaverse exists anymore, Akira reminds himself.

It's with an apologetic smile that Akechi's image disappears from the bar stool. Futaba races back to the table and Akira smiles after her, but gravity somehow feels a little less forgiving than usual. 

They eat dinner. At an izakaya, seated at a table tucked away from the uproarious sea of college students and salarymen. Akechi places their orders through the provided touchpad and makes use of the ashtray. Akira drinks what is advertised as a "seasonal cherry sensation," and is sure to try the curry.

"I can't conjure up an image of izakaya curry," Akechi confesses. "Is it any good?"

"Eh...nothing special," Akira admits. "But I've got to keep tabs on the competition, see." He offers his spoon. "Wanna try?"

Akechi's hand jerks in what Akira assumes will end in refusal, but instead his fingers open. 

Akira pushes his plate across the table and watches as Akechi lowers his eyes to load the spoon. The lift to his mouth, the barest flash of tongue and teeth. 

"What do you think?" Akira hears his voice ask.

Akechi chews as he considers. "Nothing special," he confirms. "Certainly not on the level of LeBlanc."

"Well _obviously,_ " Akira purrs, and Akechi smirks as he politely returns the spoon. "I've been working on some variations too, but they're not up to Soujiro's standards yet, so they're still on the Friends and Family Menu."

"They must be high standards," Akechi says.

"The boss is a perfectionist." Akira shrugs, grins. "I have a lot to learn in the ancient ways of curry-making."

"At they rate you're going, I imagine you could take over from him one day. If you wanted to."

Akira laughs. "Maybe," he says. "But I think he could do better in terms of successors." 

"I'm not sure that he could."

The buoyancy shifts in Akira's chest like clouds dodging sunlight. Akechi is studying the tablet, considering his next order, and Akira suddenly feels peculiar. Like he's missed something.

"Maybe it'll be my side-hustle," he says, taking a sip of his cocktail. "Law and curry."

Akechi smiles at the tablet. "That has quite the ring to it," he says. Glances up and catches Akira looking. "Did you want to order something?"

"Ice cream," Akira lies immediately and Akechi snorts, taps open the dessert menu.

They split the bill down the middle and return to the side streets that wind back to Ikebukuro Station. Akechi hisses at the dip in temperature.

"So you _are_ cold," Akira says, laughs as he shoves his own hands into his pockets. He vaguely regrets not bringing so much as a scarf he could offer.

"I wasn't expecting to stay out this long," Akechi admits. He's shivering. 

"Me neither." Akira's smile is crooked. "Wanna run the rest of the way to keep warm?"

Akechi's smooth laughter puffs white in the cold. "Tempting," he concedes, "but unnecessary." 

They walk in silence, side-by-side down the lamplit streets. Akira's breath lifts, dissolves like smoke. 

"...Say, Akira?"

"Yeah?"

"Today was..." Akechi searches for the word. "Fun."

Akira doesn't look, keeps his eyes trained steadily on the path before him, but he's smiling wider than he can help himself, teeth dry against the cold. "Good," he says, and a bird is trapped under his collarbone, beating its wings to break free. "Yeah, me too. We should do it again sometime."

Akechi pauses. "I don't think we should," he says. 

Akira looks. Akechi's face is impassive, expression impenetrable.

"Wait, what?" Akira slows to a halt. Akechi does too, now very pointedly not meeting Akira's gaze. "Why not?"

"I'm not sure," Akechi says, voice low, "what it is that you want from me."

"What I want?" Akira repeats, and the words leave behind them a trail of memory, of thought and old emotion that dissipate like dust curling under a pin light. He laughs, a jittery sound. "I want...I want _this,_ Akechi. To be friends. Is that...okay?"

Akechi's shoulders sag under the pressure of something huge and invisible. "I don't think it is," he says quietly.

"W-why not?" It's cold, Akira realizes -- stupidly cold. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, wills warmth back into his fingers, his arms, his chest. "You had fun." It's a dumb thing to say.

Akechi breathes deliberately through his nose. "It's not that simple," he says. 

"Why...can't it be?" Akira is racking his brain for clues, moments that might have gone wrong, poor decisions that might have brought them here. Places to which he might reroute. "If you had fun -- and I had fun -- which I did -- then we should..." Should what? "...Have more fun?" He laughs; he's reaching, and his own desperation is pathetic. "Okay, so when I put it like that, it does sound a little simplistic, but--" Akira squeezes his eyes against the freezing night. "Don't they say simple is best?" 

Akechi is watching him heavily. Then reaching his conclusion, "Thank you for everything." 

"Wait." This time Akira does grab him, but Akechi throws him off. 

"Don't," he snaps, "touch me."

"I'm sorry," Akira blurts. He lifts his hands in apology. "Akechi, I-- I don't get it. What did I do?" Words are frothing up and over, spilling over his tongue like flower petals. "If I said something or...or did something, I'll apologize, I'll--"

_\--do anything, just let me fix this--_

Akechi is staring. His mouth has fallen open, and his eyes are blown wide.

"Apologize?" he repeats.

"...Is that not enough?" Akira guesses. He tries laughing again to waylay his sudden unease. "I mean, I could get down on my knees and do it if you want--"

"Are you _mocking_ me?"

It's Akira's turn to stare. The night doesn't seem so dark anymore; a switch has flipped, and fury lights Akechi from the inside out. 

"No?" Akira says, forcing himself to stay calm despite the dread pasted to the back of his throat. Not that he understands why, but that was obviously not the right thing to say. 

"What on earth makes you think," Akechi says, his voice snarling into the winter air and solidifying like ice, "that I need _you_ to apologize to _me?_ "

"I...I don't know," Akira admits. "You just seem like you're pretty angry, and--"

" _Of course I'm angry!_ " Akechi snaps, then immediately -- and poorly -- tempers himself, jaw grinding in frustration. "I'm angry at myself for ever agreeing to this in the first place!"

Akira can't scare up enough saliva to swallow. "Akechi--"

"This never should have happened." Akechi's voice rings clear, less a hysterical rant than it is a supplication. "Not today, not...any of it. After everything that's happened...everything I've _done--_ "

" _Akechi,_ " Akira tries again. "I don't care." His words are rattling like old boxcars down a track he's traveled before, a track he knows leads nowhere. "All that stuff, it's...over. All of it, it--" He breathes. "It doesn't _matter--_ "

"Yes, it _does!_ " Akechi's laugh is musical in its incredulity. He's shaking his head. "There's no coming back, Akira, you can't simply--!" Akechi sighs forcefully through his nose, reining his expression into disdain. "Today was a mistake," he says firmly. "What it is you think you want -- you can't have it, so...stop wasting my time."

Akira bites his lip. His thoughts race.

 _Akechi isn't...well, he isn't anywhere._

He's talked his way out of worse.

_My advice to you is to keep your head down this week and look forward to seeing your true friends on the other side._

He's been through worse, endured greater levels of hopelessness for less-- 

_From where I'm sitting, he may not be worth the effort._

So maybe he's not.

"Well then," Akira says shortly. "If I can't have what I want, then what _can_ I have?"

"Nothing," Akechi says flatly. "Leave me alone."

"I don't want to."

"I don't care. And I'm not asking." 

"Good," says Akira. "Because I'm not either." And through the coiling mess of chaotic strategy ignites one blast of anger. "You said this shouldn't've happened, but y'know what? It did. I found you. Against...against all the odds, against everything telling me that you were gone, that _I_ should stop wasting _my_ time, because you were--" Akira hard-stops. "But you _weren't._ "

"Stop it."

"You came back."

" _I said, stop it._ "

"No, _listen_ to me!" He's suddenly a step closer to Akechi, hands clenched. "I know I couldn't help you back then, and I-- And maybe I'm just as useless to you now, Akechi, but either way, I care, alright!?" Akira glares at him. "I _care_ whether you live or die, and I care whether you're happy or not, because you _are_ my friend, whether you accept that or not!"

For a second, Akira wonders if Akechi isn't just going to haul back and hit him. "You," Akechi hisses, "have no idea how incredibly stupid you sound right now."

"That's the thing, Akechi, I've never really given a damn about how--"

" _You do not have that luxury here!_ " Akechi's voice lifts, and they are officially making a scene. Akira can feel the gaze of passersby like lasers, murmurs of uncertainty bubbling around them. "I am your _friend!?_ Akira, I am a _murderer,_ you have _no_ idea what I'm capab--"

"You're a _chainsmoker,_ you idiot," Akira snaps loudly over him. "The only person you're killing is yourself, one stupid cigarette at a time, so how about you drop the theatrics already and _listen to me!?_ "

Akechi gapes at him, winded by the non-sequitur, but Akira's not interested in pulling the attention of any cops tonight, so taking advantage of his opening, he plows on. 

"You might not ever forgive yourself," Akira continues calmly, stubbornly, "for...for being whoever it is you think you are, but I do, Akechi. I forgive you. And there's nothing you can say that can--"

His jacket yanks, and it takes a second to register that Akechi has two fists balled into it. Akira lets Akechi drag him forward, winces against what he's sure is going to be a fist -- and all things considered, maybe he deserves it -- but what hits his face are not knuckles but words. 

"I _killed_ you." Akechi shakes him, his teeth centimeters from Akira's nose. "I put a gun to your head and pulled the trigger with _delight._ You think you can just _forgive_ that?" Akechi is burning him with his gaze, eyes ruthless, scalding. "Because I was _glad,_ you idiot. I _rejoiced._ I killed you and was _glad_ to see your lifeless--" His throat closes. Takes his next breath as a rasp. 

Akira grabs Akechi's wrist, tries to stay upright, tries to stay calm. "Akechi."

"What makes you-- _think--_ " Akechi is a ventriloquist's broken doll, his eyes wide and pupils drowning in frustration. "I wouldn't--" He swallows with effort, viciously shakes Akira again. His fists are iron vices. Trembling. "Do it. _All. Again. You--_ "

"Akechi--"

" _\--Idiot._ " His throat is fracturing, splintering into shards that shear blood from his lips. "I _can't._ Go _through_ that. Again. _Why--won't you--let me----_ " He gasps. "I _can't,_ Akira, _please_ don't make me--"

And Akira panics.

Or he doesn't. He isn't sure what moves him, but before he knows what's happening, he has both arms wrapped tightly around Akechi's back. 

"...What?"

The word puffs dizzily against the side of his head, and Akira squeezes until the grip on the front of his jacket falls limp.

It rolls in like a thunderstorm in July, sudden and thick and warm. Akira holds fast, settles his own breath back into his body as Akechi gives up the fight.

"Akechi."

Akechi can't answer him. His breath is inverted, hiccups rattling his body like gunshots, tears dropping fast and hot onto Akira's shoulder. Akira guides Akechi's head against his neck, shields his face from the street. After a few heaving, listless moments, Akechi's two hands sear into Akira's shoulder-blades, gripping him as though he's the last floatation device available on a sinking vessel. He's saying something nearly indistinguishable, but it's a repeated mantra, so after the first few loops, Akira gets the drift:

" _\--sorry,_ " Akechi is gasping, " _I'm s-sorry, I-I'm _s-so_...s-sorry...I-I c-can't--I c-can't--_"

Akira squeezes him again. "I know," he says. "I know. It's okay. It's okay."

" _It's not,_ " Akechi sobs, and Akira laughs weakly. 

"Not your call, Crow." Akira knocks his head lightly against Akechi's. "Trust me on this one."

Because it's never been. And if Akira is honest with himself, it was never his call either. However they ended up here -- whatever gods or whims of fate brought them together in the first place -- Akira knows that ultimately, none of it matters. Not anymore. The Metaverse, the secrecy, the fighting, the crime -- it's all over and all that's left for them is a normal world and a normal life and the nonsensicality of mediocrity therein. Of feeling and consequence. They are just two normal people now, and it's everything they ever wanted.

Or, at least, they thought they did. 

Instinctually he pulls Akechi's shaking body closer. Suddenly Akira's not feeling so sturdy himself. 

He's not sure how long they stand there, but by the time Akechi's crying has subsided, the street has long-since resumed ignoring them. Akechi pulls away first, pressing the back of his hand against his eyes. 

"I'm sorry," he finishes.

"Don't be." Akira pats his arm, brushes his sleeve. "You alright? I think I have tissues, hold on."

He unzips the front pocket of his bag and digs. 

"Akira."

"Mm?" Akira hands over the plastic packet, advertisement for a twenty-four-hour manga cafe still nestled inside.

"Thank," Akechi screws his face up against sudden emotional obstruction, " _you._ " He accepts the tissues, squeezing his eyes tight.

It feels good to laugh, to let the stir of feelings gust openly away. "No problem," he says.

To his surprise, Akechi laughs too. "Will you promise," he asks, mopping snot from his nose, "not to...let me...forget this?"

"Are you kidding?" Akira feels his lips light in a wicked grin. "This is a Greatest Hit. I'm writing this in my diary the second I get home."

Akechi coughs with laughter again. "You still keep that thing," he says.

Akira beams, warm with Akechi's memory. "What can I say?" he says. "The fun never stopped. But this is perfect, this will make great entry material: 'Dear Diary, Today Goro Akechi cried in my arms--'"

Akechi laughs.

" '--after we had a really great Fun Day Out, although admittedly the curry was a disappointment.'"

"A crying shame."

"Exactly. 'Which, upon further reflection,'" Akira riffs, " 'was probably the reason he started crying in the first place, because only LeBlanc's curry is worthy of Goro Akechi's superior palate, cultivated as it has been on five-star restaurants, uptown cafes, and, uh...'"

"8-Ten microwave curry."

" 'And 8-Ten microwave curry. Which, let's face it, is actually pretty delicious. Yeah, I wrote it and I meant it, so stop reading my diary already, _Sojiro._ '"

Akechi snorts. "He doesn't actually read your diary, does he?"

"You know, he used to," Akira confesses. "Back when I was supposed to be a no-good, low-life delinquent. But then at some point he stopped asking for it, which was fortunate, seeing as that was around the time Futaba and I--" The words on his tongue dig to a sudden halt. It's the wrong conversation. He laughs, feels heat bleed into his face. "Uh. Should we head back?"

They're not far from the station now. 

"I suppose," says Akechi as he walks beside Akira, "it _has_ been too long since I've had LeBlanc's curry."

"See?" Akira says, shooting him a grin. "That's what I'm saying. There are some tragedies worth avoiding."

"Then I should work to avoid it." Akechi's eyes are red, his nose swollen, but his lips are twisted in the way Akira likes best, the tiny, impossible way that feels almost too good to be true. 

It's impossible not to mirror him. 

"Sojiro's usually not around on nights and weekends," he offers. "In case you're not up for reunions just yet."

Akechi closes his eyes. "What a coincidence," he says softly. "Those are exactly the times of week I enjoy curry most."

"Imagine that," says Akira. "Must be destiny."

"Perhaps it is."

"And hey, you're also eligible for the Friends and Family Menu, if you're feeling ambitious."

"If you're doubting my ambition, Akira," Akechi smiles weakly back, "then you really don't remember a single thing about me."

"--To which my publisher said--" And if this man puffs his chest any more importantly, he might literally explode, "--that's _brilliant._ "

"Wowww." It's a syllable as good as prerecorded, and Akira lets it play off his vocal chords. Were it anyone else on any other day, he might feel guilty for his disinterest, but today Akira's mind just isn't on this pompous guy's supposed book deal. 

"I _know,_ " the man preens, and Akira decides to wipe the counter down -- again -- just to have something to do. "To which I replied, 'Of course it is -- that's what you pay me for!'"

This is apparently brilliant witticism worthy of a great deal of important laughter. Akira flicks another glance to his watch. 

"Don't you get it?" the man calls from his booth. 

"Yeah, no, yeah, that's amazing," Akira monotones, checking the time on his phone too, just in case he's split between temporal dimensions or something. "Ha ha."

His phone shows the same time as his watch, and they're both aggressively slow. 

Despite Akira's obvious lack of engagement, the man seems satisfied, and rambles on and on about the brilliant query letter he wrote that led to the...well, Akira frankly doesn't care. When the man pauses to breathe, he interjects, "Can I get you anything? We're coming up on last order." Maybe having something to drink will otherwise occupy this guy's mouth. 

"But last order is at seven-thirty."

Akira opens his phone again to double-check that dimensional warping possibility. It reads seven twenty-six.

"...Yeah," he says dully. "Wow. You're right. I was early, huh."

The bell above the door rings. 

It should be the burst of December air that hits him first, but instead it's the warm wash of LeBlanc's coffee beans mingled with the rich bite of curry spice. Then comes the fresh cut of evening and outside, and Akira wonders if it wasn't just the opposite for Akechi, who gingerly closes the door behind him. 

He finds Akira behind the counter, and the corner of his mouth twitches. "Good evening," he says. 

"Hey," says Akira. He opens his arms with a flourish. "Welcome back."

Akechi tilts his head uncertainly, but dutifully abandons the threshold, unwrapping his scarf.

"I'm early," Akechi confesses, unbuttoning his jacket and seating himself on the stool before Akira. 

"Right on time," Akira says firmly, starting the kettle for water. "What can I get you? To drink, I mean." 

"Coffee." And this time, the smile Akechi tries for succeeds, no matter how short-lived. "What else at LeBlanc?" 

And Akira is grinning already, his mouth open to say, Yes, exactly, so just like you can't go to the finest winery in Italy and ask for "wine," you can't just ask for "coffee," you have to tell me the kind of _experience_ you're looking for -- when the regular in the corner booth calls, "Oh, I'll have a coffee too!"

Akira's jaw snaps shut, and Akechi's eyebrows raise in amusement. 

"A friend of yours?" the regular asks coldly. Maybe now that he has proper reference, he's realizing just how little Akira cared about his previous boasting. 

"Uhhh yeah," Akira says pleasantly, trying to assuage the man's antagonism. "A friend from school. Suzuki Keiichi."

Akechi nods in vague acknowledgement over his shoulder before turning his back again.

"Huh!" The man huffs, self-important ire setting in. "Some manners your _friend_ has. He should learn to show proper respect to his elders if he wants to make it anywhere in this world!"

And Akira has his mouth open again, this time to say, Look, my friend Suzuki's a good guy, he's just...a little shy around strangers and, you know, uh, Very Important People such as yourself -- when Akechi drones loudly, "Oh don't worry; I always show respect to people worthy of it."

This time Akira _gapes._

He isn't the only one; the pompous man is a stunned stick of dynamite regarding its own lit fuse.

"Of all the--" His mouth wobbles, and speechlessness may admittedly be a first for this guy. "In all my-- I have _never--_ "

"I'm sure you haven't," Akechi drawls unflappably, "you insufferable windbag. Today must be your lucky day."

"The nerve of-- By my--" The man inhales his outrage and proclaims, "I will not be needing that coffee I ordered!! Nor will I ever!! Patronize this establishment!! So long as _that,_ " he jabs a finger at Akechi, "mannerless...!! _Rapscallion!!_ Is here...!!" He scoots himself from his booth and glares at Akira. "I'll be having a word with Sojiro about this!!" 

And while Akira knows Sojiro is no fan of this guy either, a customer's a customer, so Akira opens his mouth to apologize, to say--

"Just so long as you're patronizing elsewhere," Akechi mutters, and Akira chokes. 

"Oh no," Akira clears his throat too late, scrambling to regain his professionalism. "No, uh, look, I'm sorry, he's actually really--"

"...Do I know you?" 

The regular is burning holes into the back of Akechi's head, and for the first time that evening, Akira feels uncertainty gnaw at his chest. 

"That voice..." The regular's glare has shifted to a frown of consideration, and Akira always thought this guy was more concerned with himself than his surroundings, but maybe he was wrong, maybe--

But Akechi hacks a mouthful of derisive laughter, spins in his seat, and smirks straight into the man's face. 

"Heard it in a nightmare, perhaps?" he suggests. "That bad, bad dream you have where you fade into the obscurity third-rate hacks such as yourself truly deserve?" He sneers. "Don't flatter yourself. Trust me when I say that if we _had_ ever met," Akechi laughs darkly, "you'd have no trouble remembering me."

It's a persuasive argument; the pompous customer blusters one last puff of anger, glares at Akira again for good measure, and then bustles out, door-chime rattling behind him. 

The cafe falls quiet, soft jazz from the radio floating up from the aftermath of sound. 

"Did you just," says Akira blankly.

"Overkill?" Akechi guesses, delicately rubbing his forehead with two fingers. "To think he'd still be here, after all this time..."

"You just."

"I never could stand that pretentious idiot.... Although admittedly, he was low on my list of concerns back then...."

" _Rapscallion._ "

"He never had anything pleasant to say," Akechi explains, "about anyone. _Ever._ " He grimaces at his hands. "At least pretend to be polite. It isn't that difficult." He blinks and his eyebrows pinch as he meets Akira's eyes. "Although...I'm afraid I cost you a customer," he says. 

Akira doesn't know how to reply. But the sight of Akechi here; sitting on the barstool before him; still wearing his winter coat; fingers nervously laced and lines driven into his forehead over _consequences_ \-- is too much and too wonderful and too surreal to handle any other way, so Akira laughs. And laughs.

"W-what?" Akechi asks eventually, pleased, but obviously uncertain as to whether it's wise to be.

"This confirms it," Akira says, pressing an open palm to the bar and a grin in Akechi's direction. "Whether you like it or not, Akechi, you're one of the good guys. A true agent of justice."

Akechi's gaze folds under Akira's words, but now he's laughing too, quietly, shaking his head in disbelief. "The water," he mumbles, pointing to the kettle behind Akira. "It's boiling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!
> 
> .........Unless?
> 
> Thank you so much for bearing with me until the very end, and I hope you found something you enjoyed!  
> I absolutely _loved_ writing these two, and my hope is to write more of them someday very soon...but we'll see what the whims of fate have in store ;) Thank you so much for reading!!!


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